


Conflagrate

by Daimhin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Amnesia, Blind Character, Canon Compliant, Complicated Relationships, Depression, Discussion of Abortion, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Infidelity, Intensely Requited Love, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Gladio/Reader, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World of Ruin, Secrets, Slow Burn, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-01-23 04:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 77,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21314287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daimhin/pseuds/Daimhin
Summary: You guided Ignis through different parts of Lucis during the years of darkness. Working together brought you close to the Hand of the King.A shame you don't remember any of it.
Relationships: Ignis Scientia/Original Female Character(s), Ignis Scientia/Reader
Comments: 118
Kudos: 153





	1. Look how far that I’ve come to be back at square one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers:  
I'm not a medical professional. There will be, in general, an abuse of medical terms and proper procedures throughout this work. I research extensively, but it's a matter of whether or not I find it helpful or necessary to go into detail over it.  
I'm messing with verb tense a lot, and I edit everything myself, so I apologize in advance for any errors or inconsistencies.  
Please keep an eye on the tags to avoid potentially triggering content, and rest assured, all applicable tags of that severity have already been added. e.g., There's _no_ tag for non-con because non-con never happens in this work. But there _is_ a tag for infidelity, so you can expect someone to be unfaithful to another at some point. (This sounds obvious, but I want to be as clear as possible.)  
Finally, I am immensely nervous posting something with a plot this heavy, but if you like Ignis, slow burns, and angst, _welcome home._

Although impossible to know, the closest you’d gotten to Ignis Scientia prior to the world ending had been on a sunny day in May of M.E. 756. You’d been driving too fast with music blasting too loudly, and you’d passed the broken down Regalia without a second thought. All you had on your mind was getting to Lestallum to meet your mentor.

In no way had you planned to stay in western Lucis. A fellowship with the University of Insomnia’s archaeological program awaited you in autumn. The summer, though, was to be yours to do what you wanted. To write. To wax poetic with a literary genius who’d seen worth in your exploration of the written word.

It was supposed to be a stint, really. Something to show your parents you weren’t going to follow in their footsteps without doing it your own way, to make them miss you.

You’d told them they’d never see you again, and you had been right.

—

Like so many others, like almost everyone you personally knew, your mentor didn’t make it long past the darkness. Being elderly, he’d gotten sick fairly quickly. He’d succumbed in less than a year, weeks spent in Lestallum’s overly crowded hospital before disappearing.

Speculation still circled over the possibilities of what happened to people who eventually died from the scourge. You knew the truth. He’d become a daemon, reforming somewhere in the darkness beyond the city, nothing but his hospital gown left behind.

Until he’d gone, you hadn’t realized how alone you were. A loneliness that followed you for years. One you grew to wear like a comfortable blanket. Like armor.

* * *

**M.E. 763**

You had steady work as a bartender at a dusty bar owned by a man named Duke, the namesake of the establishment. If there was one thing that persisted in a ruined world, it was people’s willingness to let themselves deteriorate. If the populace of Lestallum wasn’t getting drunk, they were overworking themselves at EXINERIS or throwing themselves outside the hastily constructed junk walls, right into the darkness from where they’d likely never come back.

You hadn’t been as far as the car park by the outlook in over half a decade, a fact that only ever bothered you on the slow nights when there weren’t as many hunters in town. A year or so into the darkness, the refugees had sequestered themselves near the hotel and stopped crowding the bar. Which was fine. Supplies were low, and none of them had gil left anyhow. So you lived in this limited space, perhaps a bit claustrophobic at times, and vicariously experienced everything the hunters did when they would come in and tell you stories.

Your favorite regulars were the Amicitias. Iris had only just grown old enough to drink so she tended to indulge more than she should’ve in order to keep up with her brother. You liked them both, favoring her because she didn’t take up as much space on the bar. Or tell as many tall tales about her hunts.

“What’s the word?” Gladio asked, resting elbows on the bar top as he sat.

You finished cutting a lime, splitting it into even slices. It wasn’t a delicate process, and each piece would likely find itself squeezed of all juice and tossed to the floor by the end of the night. But you took pride in your work and couldn’t have a single piece look less than perfect.

“You know the rules, big guy,” you said, smiling down at your work. “Give me a number.”

You hadn’t seen him or the person with him—Gladio never came alone—come in, so it was with a tentative look up that you noticed his companion was someone completely new this time. Your instant reaction was to smile at the man, a gesture he didn’t return. But it made sense. He was wearing sunglasses in a world without a sun. Someone needed to break the news to the poor guy, you thought as your eyes lingered on his composed, scarred face.

“Four thousand, sixty eight,” Gladio said, disrupting your ogling.

You turned to him, dumping the limes into a chilled bowl beneath the bar and picking up a thick, heavy book that sat next to it. The _ thump _ of it against the counter made his friend shift, his head turning in your direction carefully.

“Want me to get you both drinks first?” you offered, hand resting on the book.

“No, thank you,” said Gladio’s friend. His accent was refined and unfamiliar. A refugee native of Tenebrae, probably?

Gladio asked for the usual, and when you’d uncapped and placed the beer bottle in front of him, he nodded toward the dictionary still on the bar top. “The word. Four thousand—”

“Yeah, I remember,” you laughed, flipping it open. “Four thousand, sixty eight. Are you going for how many times I’ve turned you down so far? Might as well go for four thousand, sixty nine.”

Gladio sipped his beer, lowering it with a growing smile. “Something tells me today’s different.”

You flipped through the pages, skipping a fourth of the book before slowing to thumb through the G section one page at a time. _ Glaciology. Gladiator. Glad— _

Your eyes shot up to meet his. “Seriously?”

“Just read it,” he said with a chuckle.

You pursed your lips, looking back down at the word and its definition. Then, after clearing your throat, you read, “Gladiolus. Noun. Any plant of the genus Gladiolus, of the Iris family, native to tropical regions, having—” Again, you looked up at him, this time with a flat, unamused expression before continuing. “Having erect, sword-shaped leaves and spiked flowers in a variety of colors.”

He smiled around another pull of his beer, and you slammed the book shut with mild irritation. “You cheated.”

“Lucky guess,” he drawled, his grin widening by the second. “Should I use it in a sentence or spell it out?”

You looked at his friend who was more or less facing you, his expression hard to read behind his shades. Had Gladio come here just to do this? His friend didn’t even want a drink.

“No need.” It came out flat, harder than intended.

That didn’t deter Gladio’s amusement. He looked far too pleased with himself, and you hated to admit you kind of liked it. You’d never known someone so determined to have you, even if it came off a touch pushy. You were flattered, in the worst sense.

You bent to put the book away behind the bar. As you rose to your feet to meet Gladio’s gaze, you were softer when asking, “So, where are you taking me?”

There were only three places, including Duke’s, in Lestallum that could feasibly pass as date night options. After weeks, months rather, of playing this word game with you, he had to have something interesting in mind.

“Actually,” Gladio began, throwing a thumb toward his companion. “My friend needs to take you somewhere.”

You wilted a little, disappointed, although you didn’t understand why. “What?”

His friend straightened his back, resting a hand on the bartop. It was a feat; the barstools were too uncomfortable for appropriate posture. “My motives are entirely professional, I assure you.”

You grabbed the rag you used to wipe the bar, wringing it in your hands. Gladio using this game to help someone _ else _ get your attention hadn’t been your expectation. Now you wished you hadn’t flirted with him so hard. He _ was _ former nobility after all. None of that mattered now, but Important People liked to keep what shreds of what importance they had left in the pitch black world that remained.

“Ignis Scientia,” the friend said, not holding out a hand to shake. He faced your direction, the fingers of his hand on the bartop curling when you told him your name in kind.

You recognized him now. Well, not _ him, _ but his name. The Hand of the King. You’d known Gladio was the Shield; it was part of the flattery. You didn’t let just _ anyone _ flirt with you. No one else, actually. Now you realized where the disappointment was coming from.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Ignis said with a polite nod, your thoughtful silence running long. “I’m told you have an extensive knowledge of different ruins and locations throughout Lucis.”

You nodded, though he couldn’t have seen it, your brows arching in surprise. What and how could a complete stranger have heard about your parents’—and begrudgingly your own—studies when they’d had to put them on hold? You’d never told anyone about your family or your past.

Well… you’d drank with Iris once. Intoxicated enough, you’d told her about yourself. You’d felt such a strong sense of camaraderie and trust. Her stories were magnificent. So much so you wanted to write a biography on her someday.

Iris the Daemonslayer.

Her name was a low whisper among the hunters, growing in reverence each time you passed through town. You still had the shirt you’d bought from her stand seven years before. You remembered thinking she looked adorable, keeping so spirited as the world grew darker. While you’d stagnated in the darkness, she’d flourished.

That gave her the right to tell others about you, apparently. Telling her you’d been dragged through countless expeditions with your parents growing up had made for an eventful but very lonely upbringing. You’d thought yours a sob story, but the man at the bar seemed to think you held precious knowledge.

Though he wasn’t entirely forthcoming with his reasons in wanting your help, you realized soon enough why he’d sought you out. It was there, standing behind the bar, your hands stinging from the lime juice, that Ignis convinced you to leave the safety of Lestallum to continue your parents’ research, long considered abandoned.

—

Ignis thought you drove too quickly. It wasn’t anything he said, but you could tell by the way his grip on the armrest tightened at each bend in the road, the slight hitch of his breath when the truck’s engine would kick into a higher gear, roaring loudly over the calls of the daemons as you rushed down the roads. How else were you supposed to drive in an apocalyptic wasteland? A daemon could come out of literally anywhere and end you without a moment’s notice. You planned to tell him that if he so much as mentioned your driving style. You had to be fast otherwise they’d get you.

It was also freeing to be outside of Lestallum even if you were trading your safety for absolute darkness and an underlying sense of dread. You weren’t a hunter by any means so you’d not so much as stepped foot outside the barricades to hang about the Overlook in years.

A mental ticker was going off in your mind, counting down the minutes, the seconds that it had been since you’d left the small city. Fourteen so far, and you were good. You were _ good_. Not a single daemon had popped out yet to fuck you up. Probably because you were driving so quickly.

You knew what you were doing.

Fifteen minutes now. With a quick glance at the man sitting in the passenger seat, you bit back the small well of worry that sat within. Coming out here with a stranger—an _ important _ stranger with a disability for Astral’s sake—wasn’t, you’d admit, the smartest thing you’d done in recent memory, but opportunities like this just didn’t happen.

He wanted your help in analyzing old ruins across Lucis for answers. He hadn’t been very forthcoming in what exactly his questions were, but you’d practically leapt at the opportunity to leave the bar behind to take part in something that you’d, at some point at least, held a passion for. So you were going to try your best for the sake of him continuing to employ you beyond this first trek into the darkness.

Sixteen minutes out, and the roads seemed so much longer than you ever remembered. Were you driving into nothingness?

“Take a deep breath.”

His sudden statement made you start, your foot easing on the accelerator just slightly. You sent him a confused look that he had no way of perceiving. “Sir?”

You couldn’t call him Ignis. It didn’t sound right coming out of your mouth.

“Pardon any assumption I may be making,” he said, voice coming out in a deep, noble drawl that you only rarely heard from the occasional refugee. Knowing who he was made it so much more recognizable now, distinguished from a Tenebraen, though not by much. “You seem to be anxious. I assure you there is no need. As long as we are on our guard, this should be a simple information gathering trip.”

You nodded slowly, following his advice as you loosened your intense grip on the steering wheel.

Seventeen minutes.

The roads really did stretch for a while out here, huh? You took another deep breath and watched him shift in his seat out of your periphery. His hands came to rest on his knees, fingers tapping idly. Either he was putting on a facade of serenity or your driving was bothering him less, either way, you were oddly put at ease yourself by the small change in him. Your foot relaxed further on the accelerator, and the shaking rumble of the truck’s engine waned into something that sounded healthier for a vehicle that probably hadn’t been properly serviced in years.

“What are we going to be doing in the grotto?” You had to ask. The last time you’d ventured out that way, admittedly over a decade before, there had been a gods damned Midgardsormr blocking your party’s path. Ignis claimed it was simple fact finding, but who knew what was awaiting you there now.

“We aren’t venturing in just yet. We’re merely scouting the area for now.”

You nodded, thumbs dancing on the steering wheel. “So I’m gonna be your eyes.”

You thought he might’ve pursed his lips at that, but he turned his head to face the window.

“In a manner of speaking.” This came out more droll than anything else he’d said so far. You briefly wondered how often he’d heard that exact phrase— just how many times people had said they would be his “eyes” before he’d grown tired of it.

“I-I’m, uh, thanks,” you said, wishing to draw the conversation away from an apparent turn your new employer didn’t like. “For finding me. I felt like I lost a little part of what intelligence I had left each day that passed at Duke’s. Beats when I worked at EXENERIS, at least. That job was the worst.”

His response was quick and light and made you feel silly. “Such a profession is of the utmost importance in times such as these. The power plant is a beacon of hope for all who arrive to Lestallum. I find myself surprised at your distaste.”

Eighteen minutes. Another deep inhale of breath to calm yourself. You just weren’t going to talk unless you needed to.

—

You fought a yawn, rubbing at your tired eyes as you followed Ignis closely down the riverbank that would eventually meet the opening of the grotto. Paranoia kept you alert, but it wasn’t enough to stave off your need for rest.

You’d, maybe a bit hastily, left with Ignis directly after your shift. He’d given you half an hour to pack, and you’d hurried, telling Duke you would be returning to the bar as a mere patron from now on. It was shortsighted. You knew that. The anxiety of leaving with a near stranger —you’d known _ of _ Ignis Scientia, which had to count for something— was accompanied by an excitement you hadn’t felt in… ages.

One step behind Ignis, you kept turning around to shine your light on anything that crept up behind you. The river sounded weak, and every instance you looked its way proved your sad suspicion that it had dried up considerably. You hadn’t been in this area in years and recalled playing in the river before your parents forced you away lest the Sahagin have you for lunch.

Ignis suddenly stopped, and you walked directly into his back. Rubbing your nose, you groaned lightly and stepped around him. “Sorry, sir.”

His face was underlit by both of your body lanterns. It pronounced his frown and glinted off of his shades. “What do you see?”

You were standing near a boulder. Brush, leafless and spindly, grew from the ground surrounding it, and you had to shift some of the weak branches out of your way to get a look at the space that prefaced the grotto.

“Ice Bombs and…” You chewed your lip, your heart beginning to race in your chest. You couldn’t believe you’d agreed to this. You couldn’t believe you’d just quit your _ job _ for this. Those were real daemons, not just the scary stories you’d heard about through the hunters. You kept your voice at a whisper, though they all appeared too far away to notice your presence. “And a-an Arachne.”

He was kind enough to be just as quiet when he spoke. “Is there anything blocking the path into the grotto itself?”

You squinted into the darkness, using the bluish light illuminated from the roaming Ice Bombs to peer into the inky black hole in the mountainside. The waterfall had dwindled, as expected, to a few sparse, streaming rivulets. Like a beaded curtain that had been ripped apart.

“No. It’s open.”

Ignis seemed to consider this, a hand coming to his hip. “Alright. Should be simple. Let us hope that the inner caverns are as well.”

You balked. There was a small band of creepy daemons roaming the area with another that was even bigger and _ creepier. _ He thought that was easy?

He was already backtracking. “Shall we make camp? There is a haven nearby, if memory serves.”

The glowing blue haven had been in the back of your mind ever since you’d spotted it from the road. It was horribly out of sight now. You traced Ignis’ footsteps, fighting another yawn and the urge to go ahead to the camp with the bag at your back. He could hardly carry the tent and stove on his own down all the stairs that connected the lower ground to the roadway above. You didn’t see the point in the stove; you weren’t much of a cook and didn’t look forward to making breakfast. It was just another part of your new job, you supposed. You were now… his assistant? His guide? So far, he’d been the one guiding you.

You didn’t bring any of this up, trekking after him and sticking close. You bumped into him two more times before making it to camp. He didn’t bring _ that _ up.

—

The contents of your expeditiously packed bag were unsatisfying once you were sitting in the warm firelight of the haven, going through it with a growing concern. A toothbrush, one pair of underpants, two shirts, and a dagger you had absolutely no idea how to use. Ignis had said it would only be a couple of days, at most. Still… this wasn’t ideal.

You searched the bag uselessly for anything more that could magically appear while Ignis put away the tools you’d used to pitch the tent. Looking across the camp at him, you fought a sigh. This still felt like it could be a mistake. Tearing at the laces of your boots, you decided you’d get some sleep. Maybe that would help settle your nerves, if at all possible.

Realizing you hadn’t brought any pants to sleep in, you decided you’d just rest in your jeans. Not ideal, but it was cold anyway. When you stood up, your inner thighs ripped with pain. It was so sudden, you sat back down, hissing through your teeth. You shifted uncomfortably, pulling at the denim of your pants to alleviate the sting at your thighs, but it only bit harder.

Fighting a grunt, you carefully unbuttoned your pants and began to shimmy out of them, all the while keeping an eye on Ignis who walked about the small area of the haven. Just past your thighs, you felt mild relief at the cold air hitting your skin. With the jeans stopped at your knees, you used the yellow firelight to examine the aching area. It was red and sore to the touch, and you couldn’t hold back your sigh.

Just great. Another day of walking ahead, and you were already chafed.

“Are you alright?”

Ignis’ voice startled you into jerking your pants back up, which only hurt more. You closed your eyes, leaning forward as you fought another pained sound. “I’m fine. Just—” You let out a softer sigh. “Tired.”

He seemed to let it go with a non-committal hum. Opening your eyes, you found him going through his own pack. Easing your jeans off again, completely this time, you wondered if he had anything for chafing in his supply. The level of inappropriate in even asking him was something you were willing to overlook because it hurt _ that _ badly.

Well, almost, but not quite.

You kept the issue to yourself and punched the legs of your jeans right-side-in, folding them lazily. The stone floor of the haven was mercifully smooth, and you remained sitting there for a short stretch of time, keeping your thighs from touching each other. Just the short walk to the tent wasn’t something you wanted to deal with yet. So you procrastinated and spent the time watching Ignis continue to move about the camp.

He began to set up the cooking equipment, not turning anything on but making sure the table, the plates, everything was in its place for tomorrow. It surprised you how adept he was, although, it only made sense. How many times had he done this before? If he thought breakfast was so important, you weren’t opposed to cooking it if he was really going to go through such effort to get everything ready.

When he turned your way, you instinctively put a hand between your thighs, to— to hide your underwear? Easing as he walked toward you with a bottle of water, you reminded yourself that he couldn’t see you. He didn’t know you weren’t wearing pants. This was _ fine. _

“I’m surprised to find you still up,” he said, bending a little to offer you the water. It was just a little out of reach, and you had to bring your legs together to lean upward and take the bottle from him. Your sensitive thighs burned at being pressed together.

“I’m going now, actually.” It was with a grimace that you finally stood, legs planted apart from one another awkwardly. Picking up your pack and jeans, you took all of it to the tent, waddling the entire way.

When you were nearly home free, the bottle of water fell out of the bundle in your arms. It rolled across the ground, and you turned to go after it with pained steps. Unfortunately, Ignis was also aiming to get it for you, bending forward with a hand reaching out. Almost grazing your bare hip with his hand, he stopped the bottle in its tracks with a quickly placed foot. You stepped back, watching him pick it up and stand upright.

“Here you are,” he said, holding it out.

Part of you was uncomfortable at how easily he’d gotten it. He… really couldn’t see anything, right? You wanted to cover yourself again, taking the bottle with a bit of soft suspicion. You didn’t move for a moment, staring at him as if you could suss out just how blind he was simply by looking hard enough. When it only resulted in a stretch of awkward silence, you cleared your throat.

“Thanks.” You backed toward the tent this time, facing him with your things covering your thighs.

He appeared unaware as he sat in one of the camping chairs, facing the fire. “Good night.”

You placed your things into a corner, eyeing the decent job you did unrolling the sleeping bags before leaning through the opening to look at Ignis. He just… sat there. “Um, sir.” It wasn’t something you wanted to be asking him, but you had to. “Are you not going to sleep?”

His head tilted toward you, his outline stark in the firelight, a black silhouette against the flame. “I may join you later. I have things to do.”

You pinched your lips between your teeth, nodding until you remembered —just _ try _ to be considerate rather than paranoid, you reminded yourself yet again— that he couldn’t see it. Releasing your lips, you said, “Uh, okay. Night, then.”

He nodded and faced the fire without another word. You zipped the entrance closed, leaving a small gap to make it easier for him when he did decide to join you. First, you rolled yourself into the sleeping bag, then decided that was the worst thing you could’ve done once your legs were pressed together and your thighs were screaming in pain at having to physically touch something, most of all each other.

Laying with your legs spread apart, you used the sleeping bag like a makeshift blanket, reaching for your wad of jeans. There, you thought, using them as a pillow. Now you could sleep. Finally.

—

If only it were that easy.

Two hours of checking the time and playing the least battery-consuming game on your phone that had _ long _ since passed its replacement age, you scrabbled up from the hard ground. Your head hit the top of the tent, and you swore quietly. Ignis hadn’t gone to sleep, and you were beginning to think he never would.

Not that it was any of your business. You were primarily concerned about the persistent pain between your legs. Using the lamp you’d had clipped to your jacket, you rifled through your stuff for something, _ anything _ useful. Coming away with nothing but the bottle of water, you sat down again and took off your shirt. A splash of the water went onto a wadded corner of the cloth. You drank from the bottle while gently dabbing at the chafed skin. You hissed, capped the bottle, and gave your thighs your full attention. It was with small hope that cleaning them a little would help alleviate the pain.

It wasn’t working that well. Dabbing the sore spots with the dry end of your shirt, you shuddered out a heavy breath. Your throat grew tight. This had been such a mistake. Since when were you the kind of person who took risks like this? The cries of daemons in the distance only added to the nightmare. You tossed your shirt aside, rubbing your eyes before they could water.

This was scary, and you were exhausted, but you were _ not _ going to cry.

The entrance to the tent shook a little as it opened, the tarp of it giving way to Ignis as he stepped inside. He was frowning, and it didn’t let up even as he asked, “Are you certain you’re alright?”

You wiped your cheeks, wet with tears despite how hard you’d tried to stop them from falling, though it was pointless. Your sniffling was a dead giveaway. Still, like his lack of sleep wasn’t for you to be concerned about, your distress was none of his business.

“I’m just really tired,” you said, knowing it sounded hollow being a repetition of your earlier excuse. But it was also true. In no way had you woken up that morning thinking you’d be outside of Lestallum with a stranger after an entire shift at the bar. You should’ve insisted you get more time to rest and prepare before coming out here. You _ should’ve _ just told him he was insane for trying to recruit you and shown him the door.

Ignis didn’t remove his shoes after closing the tent’s entrance. He laid down next to you, one arm resting under his head, blank eyes staring up at nothing once he took off his glasses. You watched him, your breaths evening out before they could really get worked up. He had to be uncomfortable laying there with little between him and the hard ground, but he appeared unperturbed.

When he suddenly tilted his gaze your way, you jumped a little. Rubbing hands down your face, you tried to rid yourself of both the tears and the heat of embarrassment now staining your cheeks.

“I promise that, should it become too dangerous, we will return to Lestallum immediately.”

You laid back, keeping a distance from him and pulling the sleeping bag over yourself. Staring at the top of the tent, you finally said, “Thank you, but I’ll be okay.”

You couldn’t let him think you were unreliable. You’d already quit your job for this; there wasn’t going to be a position at the bar waiting for you once you got back to Lestallum. Steady employment was in high demand. This, at least, you had no doubts over.

Ignis was quiet after that. Quiet for so long that you looked at him again. His eyes were open, unfocused toward the ceiling of the tent again. Just as you were readying to speak, he opened his mouth. “You should rest.”

Taking that advice, you switched off the small lamp and closed your eyes. Having a warm body near you made sleep come easier.

—

Morning was marked by the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Your face was pressed against something warm and hard when your eyes cracked open. With everything around you pitch black and terribly cold, you were hesitant to move away from the comforting presence against you.

Realizing that the sleeping bag had been kicked down to your feet at some point in the night, you thought about reaching down for it as a shiver coursed its way through you. Instead, you shifted closer to the warmth.

“Uh, Iggy? Hello?”

That unfamiliar voice grew louder, closer. Somewhere outside the tent, light flickered, brighter than the campfire. Then, the entrance to the tent began to unzip, the flap coming open. Alarmed, you tried to sit up, but an arm over your waist held you down. You threw it off and sat up just in time to have a light shine right into your eyes.

With a groan, you covered your face with your arm and looked at Ignis next to you. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with the butt of his palm before reaching for his glasses.

“I-I’m so sorry,” the intruder said, waving the light around frantically. You wished they would stop. “I didn’t know you were having, um— shit.” They left the tent, swearing more between awkward laughs.

You blinked at the return to darkness, hands roaming around for your things. Ignis seemed to be doing the same, one of his hands wandering the tent. It came down onto your thigh and rested there for several moments, then jerked away. He cleared his throat, an immediate, “Apologies,” following the touch.

Your eyes were beginning to adjust as he stood up. You practically leapt for your pack, ready to get dressed as the entirety of your situation began to hit you. Shoving all discomfort aside, you quickly dug into your things for a shirt. Ignis left the tent, politely closing the entrance behind himself. You listened to him speak to the intruder as you got dressed.

“You’re early,” Ignis said, his voice so much more clipped with this person than it had been with you.

“I thought you’d _ like _ that.”

A sigh. “By two hours, no less.”

“Y-yeah, look.” The person seemed to waffle, making sounds but uttering no actual words for a moment. “I didn’t know the guide was like, your girlfriend or something.”

“Prompto.” It sounded like a warning. “I appreciate your effort, but our companion likely needs more rest.”

The other person —Prompto?— wavered again, stuttering for a bit. You stepped into your jeans while watching his vague silhouette shift about erratically on the wall of the tent while Ignis remained unmoving.

Your thighs didn’t burn anymore, something you immediately realized when you were buttoning your pants and felt no pain at the way your legs rubbed together. Leaving your pack behind, you stepped out of the tent to look between the men standing by the campfire.

The intruder had blonde hair and wide blue eyes that met yours as soon as you left the tent. He scratched at the nape of his neck, the toe of a boot digging uselessly into the stone of the haven. “Hey, good morning.”

You looked at him, not answering his unexpected greeting. Ignis kept himself busy, cracking open a can of Ebony and bringing it to his lips instead of explaining just what the hell was going on. You looked away, stretching idly but comfortably because the few hours of sleep you’d gotten had actually been _ nice. _

The intruder stepped toward you. “R-right. I’m Prompto.” He held out a hand, then retracted it, then held it out again. So uncertain.

You introduced yourself, high fiving his hand. He’d just seen you in nothing but your underwear. You were past handshakes.

“I’m feeling better,” you said, looking toward Ignis. “Ready when you are, sir.”

He nodded, placing the Ebony on the cooking surface next to the stove. “Once we’ve eaten.”

You frowned, not particularly liking that. Breakfast was usually the only meal you ever ate, but you couldn’t stress to anyone enough that you weren’t much of a cook.

Only Ignis began to do everything. Long fingers flipping switches, his back arching as he bent to grab a spatula stored underneath the table. Prompto didn’t seem at all surprised. He took a seat in one of the camping chairs, dropping the bag he’d had over a shoulder to the ground. His phone left a pocket within moments, but his eyes kept trailing back to you.

Slowly going to one of the other chairs, you kept glancing back at Ignis doubtfully. Were you _ really _ going to let the blind person cook?

“Oh, right!” Prompto spoke up, catching your attention. He dug into his bag as you sat down. Coming away with pens and tablets of paper, he held them up and grinned at you. “I brought these for you. So, y’know, you can take notes.”

You accepted them, still unsure of what was going on or why exactly this person had joined your trip. He was kind of charming by first impression, though, in a little brother sort of way. It looked like he was trying to grow a goatee, but the hair was coming in unevenly.

Giving the supplies a once over, you stood to put them away in your bag. The second time you left the tent, you were met with a lovely smell. Ignis was still at work over the stove, and, by all appearances, seemed to know exactly what he was doing. You wanted to watch more closely, fascinated by it. For fear of getting in his way, you instead returned to your seat near Prompto.

“Haven’t been in the grotto in like, seven years,” he spoke up.

Crossing one leg over the other, you rested your elbow on your knee and looked at him curiously. “You’ve been there before?”

Prompto nodded, dropping his phone to his lap. Excitement was so easily read on his face. It was nice. Reminded you of the friendlier patrons at the bar.

“Why—” You cleared your throat softly. “Why do you need me to guide the way if you’ve been here before?”

It was a question for Ignis, but Prompto answered. “We need an expert.”

That didn’t satisfy you, primarily because you _ weren’t _ an expert. In anything, really.

What did satisfy, though, was breakfast. You ate in silence between the men, sending glances to Ignis and wondering what _ he _ wasn’t an expert in himself.

—

You couldn’t believe Prompto was older than you. By only a year, and yet…

“Hey, do you think the daemons left once the sun disappeared?” His shoulder brushed yours, a friendly gesture you didn’t return but didn’t hate. “Like, they realized they didn’t have to stick around here anymore. They have a whole world to terrorize now.”

It was a silly observation, but it was pretty odd that you hadn’t encountered a single enemy yet. Together, Prompto and Ignis had taken care of what roamed outside the entrance before you could even pull your dagger from your boot. There hadn’t been any sign of life, hostile or otherwise, ever since.

You weren’t going to complain, even if it did seem like an omen.

Ignis walked several paces ahead, occasionally asking for descriptions of things that could be important. You found no particular rhyme or reason to any of it, but answered as best you could. After the third request for details, you began to record your responses with your phone just to be safe.

Ignis paused at the edge of a slope you’d been climbing for the past quarter of an hour. “Perhaps they’re in hiding.”

Prompto stopped next to him, and you stuck close, peering past them to the steeper bank on the other side. Coated with ice, it glistened under the lamplight. Flashes of memories came to you of sliding down icy banks just like this and going deeper into the caverns. You remembered your mother telling you it would be your _ fun secret, _ a deeper study into the grotto that your father wasn’t aware of. You remembered the fights, the competition— had this been the beginning of the end?

A small laugh out of Prompto disturbed your thoughts. He looked between you and Ignis, his brows arching. “Since when do daemons hide?”

“Yeah, they do sometimes. I know a trick,” you spoke up, surprising yourself. A more recent memory came to mind, and you invited it in. It was something a hunter had told you a year or so ago, something you’d believed briefly. “A call that works as a warning.”

Prompto had the audacity to look impressed. “Really?”

“Yeah, it goes like this,” you said, demonstrating by cupping a hand near your mouth and letting out a warbling cry that sounded like no known creature. “It scares the daemons into hiding. Temporarily, at least.”

Prompto copied you, and you had to cover your mouth to stifle a laugh as his string of absurd throat noises ricocheted off the cave walls. The earnest way he followed your direction was endearing. He hopped down to sit on the ledge, letting go and sliding down the icy slope while mimicking the fake call.

“I don’t think you realize what you’ve just done,” Ignis said, turning to you.

You dropped your hand, a laugh escaping. “No offense, sir, but your friend is kind of gullible.”

“Ignis.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Ignis.” He crossed an arm over his chest, the other propping there at the elbow to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.“Or Iggy, if you’d like.”

You opened your mouth, prepared to tell him _ sir _ worked better for you, but Prompto’s nonsense noises were still ringing through the air. And it all felt trite.

“Ignis,” you said with a nod. “Should we hurry before Prompto gets eaten by something for making that terrible sound?”

For a moment, Ignis nearly smiled. Or so you thought. It was hard to tell in the dim light. For some reason, you couldn’t _ imagine _ him smiling.

“Prompto can handle himself despite evidence to the contrary.” He loosened his crossed arms, preparing to descend. “But you’re correct.”

—

Down more than one icy slope, through several so-cramped-must-crawl spaces, and far more narrow ledges than you thought necessary, your party ended at a large set of doors in the back of a wide cavern. Prompto gave a small cheer, and Ignis followed him toward it. You stopped, staring at the carved stone. Your parents had explored this place with a team of mercenaries for months and this had _ never _ been here before.

The doors were open but not fully, wide enough to walk through one at a time. You went last, stilled by the surprise that had yet to wane from this discovery. Prompto and Ignis acted as though this was exactly what they’d expected. Maybe it was.

The first thing to catch your eye was the— the, wait— that was a fucking sarcophagus. Just right there. In the center of the room. You walked toward it, your gaze pouring over the man chiseled out of the stone face. Digging your phone from a pocket, you cleared your throat and began recording.

“We’ve reached a tomb.” You gazed about the entire space. “Domical. Ornate but empty.” Pausing the recording, you looked at Ignis. He was at the head of the coffer, his fingertips tracing over whatever was inscribed there. “Is this what I think it is?”

His hands stopped moving. “Likely. It’s the tomb of the Wanderer.”

Swallowing hard, you returned to taking notes. A royal tomb this deep in the caves? You couldn’t believe you’d gotten here in only a few hours. This was incredible.

Prompto kept quiet, mostly, as you poured over observations. Ignis would provide input on your open thoughts, if he knew the answer. Even better, he coerced more detail out of you at every pause. The inscriptions throughout the room? All Old Lucian. It was unreadable with your base knowledge, but Prompto took photos to help you go over it later. The empty but open hands of the Wanderer? There used to be swords, but Prince Noctis had come to take them years before. Because of course.

As you took in everything you could about this place, secreted away and long forgotten, you felt the last of your regret and anxiety over your decision to come finally ebb away. You only wished your parents could be here to see it, too.

—

Ignis prepared dinner while you sorted through your notes. He did things like clockwork, going through the motions without looking back. That was apparent on the trek out of the grotto. It had taken twice as long; all manner of daemon had decided to make an appearance.

He’d cut through them as easily as he now chopped vegetables. His care was so precise, despite his… Well, it _ shouldn’t _ have been. He moved with ease, stirring the contents of a pot, flipping something else in a pan, and pinching spices. It was slightly distracting.

So much so that you faced away from him and put on headphones to listen to your audio notes privately. Transcribing was tedious, and, in the end, this part of it was for yourself. Ignis would only appreciate the audio files. He’d already asked you to compress and send them to him when you could, and that had you questioning just how useful you were to this endeavor.

You still didn’t know exactly what he was hoping to accomplish. Especially if he’d already been to the places he wanted to venture. Casting a glance back at him over your shoulder, you startled when he wasn’t by the stove but directly near you. Taking out the earbuds, you coughed a little.

“Sorry, yes?”

“Would you care for an Ebony to aid your studies?” He held one out, and though you didn’t enjoy coffee without sweetener and cream to make it _ digestible, _ you accepted the can with a quiet thanks.

You waited until he was back to cooking before cracking it open. Across the campfire, Prompto snickered at the face you made on the first drink. The taste was bitter and slightly metallic. You offered the can out toward him, and he shook his head quickly. Placing it on the ground next to your chair, you ran your tongue over your teeth. Canned Ebony always left a weird taste in your mouth. And Ignis liked that?

Another glance over your shoulder, you thankfully found him sizing up a potato, bouncing it on his open palm. His other hand gripped the handle of a knife, the tip of which dug into a cutting board on the table. Facing Prompto again, you caught him laughing at something on his camera. He was meant to be printing out photos of the tomb. You couldn’t imagine what he would find so amusing among those.

You put your buds back in, choosing not to ask or think too hard on the odd company you were now with. Their appearances were significantly rougher than your own, a mark of how they’d kept you safe on the way back.

Weird or not, you were in good hands.

—

Lestallum was a relief. It was too hot, too crowded, and mostly safe. It was a surprise to see Gladio waiting when you and Ignis emerged from the checkpoint station just inside the entrance. When he called for Ignis, you stuck back. All you wanted to do at this point was to go home and sleep. But Ignis hadn’t paid you yet. So you waited, standing nearby while they spoke.

As if reading your mind, Ignis turned to you minutes later. Gladio had handed him several things, one of them being an envelope that he now passed off to you. “Your payment.”

Because you were impatient and curious, you opened it to quickly flip through the bills. It was… so much more than you’d anticipated. This was easily three months of groceries. Closing the envelope carefully, you took off your pack and tucked the money away.

Gladio caught you off guard as you stood, stepping toward you to take the pack from you before you could put it back on. “I’ve got it.” He slung it over a shoulder as if it were nothing. “I’ll walk you home.”

“No, that’s—”

You were interrupted by Ignis next. “I’ll keep in contact. We should meet soon to discuss our findings, if any.”

“Yes, that sounds great,” you answered. Maybe a bit too rushed. Maybe because he was paying you mad cash just to travel with him. “I’ll start on the Old Lucian translation tomorrow.”

With a nod, he walked off, and you’d completely forgotten what you were doing before. Next to you, Gladio shifted heavily on his feet. Right! You were putting a stop to some unnecessary chivalry.

Gladio was already stepping over a bundle of the heavy cables that littered the ground throughout the city. He didn’t even look back as he began to walk away. “You comin’ or not?”

“You don’t even know where I live.” You followed him. “You’re going the wrong way.”

He stopped and turned to you with a shrug and an easy smile. “I was just goin’ to my place. Unless you wanna help a guy out?”

You were at a loss for what he was playing at, crossing and uncrossing your arms. Then, giving in, you waved for him to follow and began in a different direction. “I can walk myself, but…” You gave him a side glance. “Thanks.”

“Hey, I’m not just doing it out of kindness.” He chuckled. “We’re due for a chat about that date you owe me.”

That startled a small laugh out of you. “That’s— we’re still doing that?”

“I didn’t play that word game for weeks just to get my buddy an assistant.” He looked down at you in amusement. “I’m not letting you go so easily.”

You chewed on your lip to stop your smile from growing, though the words warmed you more than you would’ve liked. Under the flickering lights that lined the Lestallum streets, you were unintentionally charmed.

* * *

**M.E. 768**

Your eyelids are heavy, cracking open through the pull of sleep, sticky on your lashes. A muted beep seems to measure the pounding in your head. You open your mouth, lips pulling. Too dry. Stale. Like the rest of your mouth.

As your tongue moves about to dredge up moisture, you peer about, taking in your surroundings with a sleep-addled sense of intent. The overhead light is switched off, but a dimmed lamp on a table nearby lights up just enough for you to make everything out as your eyes adjust. The light pink walls are vaguely familiar. The flowery curtain at the window less so. Still, you recognize the charts on one of the walls and the bed you’re in.

The Lestallum Medical Center. Weird, but only because this place is meant for the worst of the refugees. Not— You blink hard against the low light. Why are you here? You stare at the blanket that covers you, thin and white with colorful pastel accents. Smoothing your hands over it brings your attention to a thing clamped over your index finger.

You lift your hand to look closer, your gaze following a cord connected to the clamp. It’s hooked up to a machine near you. The source of the beeping. Huh. Your head pulses with pain, and the plastic of the little clamp smacks your temple when you bring your hand up.

With a hiss, you unhook it and massage your head with your fingers. Fingertips meeting a tender spot padded with gauze, you grit your teeth and close your eyes. The room is quieter, and you realize the beeping had stopped. Slowly, you lower your hands and open your eyes. The room, much like your confusion, remains unchanged.

There’s a soft whine when the door opens. A doctor steps in, white coat flowing, hand lifting to flick on the light. They speak, but it’s like static, the sudden light hurting your eyes.

“Hm?” It’s more of a groan out of you than anything, and you cough before trying again. “What happened?”

They pick up a clipboard and pull a pen out from a pocket. You stare at it while they talk. Their voice is calming as they introduce themselves and explain what you’d already figured out, you’re in Lestallum Medical.

“You’ve been through a bit of an ordeal,” they say. “How are you feeling?

You lick your lips, eyes shifting upward to meet theirs. “My head hurts.”

They give you a sympathetic look. “Can you give me your name?”

It comes out of you in a slightly wavering voice, and they check something off on their clipboard with a nod. Then, they begin to explain things that only make your head hurt worse. The bed is adjusted to have you sitting up, so you rest your head back on your pillow and close your eyes.

“Mmm, no,” you say, shaking your head but listening all the same. You’d been unconscious for ten days. Blunt force trauma to your head. Some sort of accident. “That can’t… can’t be right.”

The doctor startles you with a small touch to your hand. Your head jerks up, eyes shooting open. You still when all they’re doing is putting the little clamp back on your finger. You adjust it afterward, and for some reason, that makes them soften further.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

You try to think back, through the fogginess and past the pulse of pain. “I was in the Merylwood… exploring.”

Again, they write something onto the clipboard and nod. “Anything else? Can you remember what happened before you were brought here?”

You inhale deeply and make yourself think. Lamplight skittering across barren trees. A laugh, forced and fake. A soft hand helping you stand up.

Your head aches too deeply, the points of pain prickling along the crown, particularly sharp where you’d been bandaged. Closing your eyes again, you reach up to touch your head. The doctor stops you, a gentle hand on yours.

“Please keep from touching the injury until it heals.”

You lower your hands, but keep your eyes closed. You hear shuffling and assume they’re walking around, flipping papers, preparing to tell you some terrible news. That thought has your eyes cracking open.

The doctor stands by the wall of charts and informational posters, writing just like you imagined. Your eyes wander, traveling to the heavy curtains, opened just enough to let in some of the light from the city. If you’re here, that means you’re one of the worse-off refugees. It means something went wrong.

“Are my—” Your throat is still dry, and you cough, gaining the full attention of the doctor. “Are my friends okay?”

They don’t answer immediately, as if unsure. “You were brought in by two people. No one else needed medical attention.”

You take in their indirect way of saying Ignis and Aranea are okay. It’s a relief, once that realization fully hits you.

“Can I see them? Are they here?” You sit up as you speak, leaning forward and splaying hands on your legs. Their presence in the hospital is unlikely, and you know it. But a bud of hope sits in your chest all the same.

The doctor gives you another sympathetic look. “They left hours ago. It’s—” They pause to look at their watch. “Just past midnight.” A smile comes to their face when they meet your eyes again. “Get some rest. They’ll be back, and I’m sure they’ll be excited that you’re up.”

You deflate as they put away the clipboard. Are you not dying or something? Your head feels as if it could have its own gravitational pull. “How bad am I?”

The doctor comes back to the bedside, their gaze raking over the heart rate monitor before falling on you. “You’re a bit beaten, but we patched you up. You seem to have full cognizance, so I wouldn’t worry.” It’s reassuring even though it’s impossible to believe. “This is what we’ve all been hoping for. The best thing you can do now is rest.”

They turn away with one last reassuring smile. Despite apparently having slept for over a week, when a nurse visits later with something to help with the pain, you fall blissfully asleep within moments.

—

The second time waking, you’re much more present. Like before, you unhook the heart rate monitor, tossing the clamp aside along with the blankets and sheets covering you. The floor is cold against your bare feet. The first step has you sitting down, hands on your knees. Blinking your eyes, you try to orient yourself. Your legs feel weak. Every part of you does, and walking over to the wall of information is akin to a child’s first steps.

Using a counter set into the wall as a balancing point, you slide the clipboard out of the slot. The words are readable, but you don’t quite know what they mean. Boxes are marked. _ Yes. No. If yes, elaborate. _ The doctor’s handwriting is horrible.

You shove the clipboard back into its holder with a sigh. Then, you spare a more thorough glance about the place. It’s brighter, all lights having automatically switched on when you’d gotten up. On wobbly legs, you walk to the door of what you guess is the bathroom.

It’s somehow colder in there, and you shiver while locking the door behind you. The sink serves as your next anchor. Your eyes wander over your reflection, hungry to know, truly, how bad off you are.

Yellowed bruises mark your face in splotches. The bandage over your head injury is smaller than it had felt the night before. You tilt your head at an angle to get a closer look, and your hand slips on the sink’s edge. Forehead hitting the mirror, you groan.

“Shit.” You rubbed your head and steadied yourself. No matter what the doctor said, you are hard pressed to believe you are completely alright. You’d seen people who looked worse off be treated in camps and Lestallum alleyways. The hospital was for the most critical, right? You thought this over, taking in more of your appearance.

Laying in bed for ten days had been pretty good for your figure, apparently. Your face, still on the rounder side, is slimmer. Even your arms, slightly shaky as they held you in place against the sink, are thinner. You don’t approve of what they’ve done to your hair, though. Bringing a hand up to touch the edges, blunt and freshly cut, you lament the loss. You’d been growing your hair out for so long, too. Maybe they needed to cut it to better dress the head wound, you reason.

Either way, you’re not a fan.

Pushing away from the sink, you make yourself stretch. Balance is steadily getting easier. Your back cracks comfortably, and you let out a pleased moan. You look like shit, but you feel… okay. The ache in your head remains, but it’s significantly less sharp than before.

You leave the bathroom moments later to find people in your room. Familiar faces have you smiling, and you feel it, pulling at your cracked lips.

“Your friends are here.” The doctor motions toward Ignis and Gladio, both men standing near the bed. Not quite what you imagined, but even better.

Ignis is doing that uncanny thing where, by all appearances, he seems to be looking directly at you. There’s no way to tell, and you’re already dismissing it in favor of looking at Gladio. Heart warming at the sight of him, your smile grows.

“Honey,” you breathe, using your regained balance to propel yourself toward him. The small _ oof _ out of him as you slam into his chest is cute, and you’d missed him, somehow, while you’d been asleep. You’d really missed him. He’s warm and comforting but smells strangely different.

Holding him in a hug that he doesn’t return, you look up to his face, unable to fight your grin. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

Next to you, Ignis clears his throat. Tearing your gaze away from Gladio, you let go. Right. Your boss is right there. No need to make it awkward. It doesn’t hit you until you’re looking between them that something is… off. Aside from Gladio not returning your hug, he’s looking at you as if confused. Even his appearance isn’t right. His hair couldn’t have grown _ that _ much in ten days. His beard, maybe, but— you step back further, eyes shifting to Ignis. A sharp frown cuts his face.

“I knew it,” you say, your feelings of elation dissipating as quickly as they’d manifested. You turn to the doctor. “Something’s super fucking wrong. M-more than just my head, I mean.”

They place a placating hand on your shoulder, which you shrug off as they speak. “You’ve experienced blunt trauma, it’s—”

You back away another step. “Just tell me what it is. I’ve caught the scourge, right?”

Silence follows. They’re looking at you as if you’re out of your mind. You take in a deep breath, fighting hyperventilation. Still, no one says anything. Ignis’ frown loosens as his lips part. You don’t even care if you lose your job. If you’re destined to become a daemon now, what’s one simple guide job?

“So I’m going to die.” You cover your face with your hands. This is fucking terrifying. You’d _ known _ something was up. Why else would you be here? “I’m dying, and no one wants to admit it.”

The doctor is the first to speak up. “You’re not dying. Take a deep breath.”

You drop your hands from your face and follow their direction. “If I’m not dying, why am I here?”

Again, they’re confused. Gladio begins to scratch his head. His hair is too long. Yours is too short. Nothing feels right. Ignis clears his throat again, and you feel like you’re going to cry.

Ignis turns to the doctor. “May I have a word?”

The doctor goes first, picking up your clipboard on their way out. You frown at the way they flip through the papers on it as if deeply confused. Your eyes begin to water. Blinking to fight it, you look from the doorway to Ignis. He’s facing you again, and he looks like he wants to say something, mouth open and hand reaching forward.

Then, you realize he probably feels guilty. You’d been traveling with him when you’d gotten hurt. Before you can dredge up the thought to tell him it’s not his fault, he lowers his hand and goes to the door. You don't catch any of his conversation with the doctor before the door closes behind him.

The room is silent save for the ambient buzz of the heart rate monitor, still on but displaying nothing. You walk to the bed and sit on the edge. Fingers rubbing your temples, moisture building in your eyes, you sigh.

“Gladio.” It’s thick in your throat, his name. You look at him, matching the confusion that remains so heavily in his expression. “What’s going on?”

He shifts his weight between large feet, hand dropping from his hair to shove into a pocket. “You got hurt. I’m sorry I wasn’t faster getting to you.”

That only adds to your confusion. Gladio hadn’t been with you in the Merylwood. You remember traveling through with Ignis and Aranea, specifically because, between them, you’d felt invisible. But Gladio, maybe he means something else.

Lowering your hands to prop them on the bed, you say, “I just want to go home.”

He takes a step toward you, and you wish he’d just hold you. He’s usually quick with affection, but even the way he’s looking at you is awkward. If not starscourge, you must have _ something _ if your own boyfriend won’t touch you.

“Once the doc gives the clear,” he says. “We’ll all go back. Sania will probably smother you with attention. She feels guilty for heading back to Insomnia first, but Talcott couldn’t stick around after bringing Iggy.”

You stare at him. None of what he said makes any sense to you. “What?” You stand up, shaking your head. “What are you talking about?”

Confusion comes back to him, and it’s so heavy in the room, settling between you. “Talcott got Iggy here as fast as he could, but you know he had to get back for training. Cor doesn’t wait around.”

This is giving you a headache, but at least the threat of tears is gone. All you have now is bafflement. “Who’s Talcott? Why aren’t you making any sense?” You close the distance between you, taking one of his hands in both of your own. “What’s going on?”

Your thumbs rub gentle circles over his hand, and you step closer, your toes touching his boots. His expression becomes uncomfortable, and he glances toward the closed door before looking down at you.

“I don’t know.” He pulls his hand free and takes a step back. “I’m gonna go get—”

You grab his hand again. Your head is beginning to pound harder, and your chest is growing tighter by the second. “You won’t even touch me. It sounds like I could've died, and you’re not relieved at all.”

Your hand squeezes his. You wish something would make sense and soon. Lifting his hand, you notice a ring that you’d never seen before. Bright light glints off its golden surface, and you stall, going still at the simple design of it.

“Since when—” The ring shines as you move his hand, and you’re further caught off guard at the sliver of light that’s now falling across Gladio’s torso. Turning around, you let go of his hand to look at the light shining through the crack in the curtains. It’s way too bright to be coming from the street lamps outside. Feet plodding across the cold floor, you tear the curtains back.

The Lestallum Medical Center is set into one of the highest points of the city, overlooking the neighboring buildings and even, if one is on the higher floors, the Disc of Cauthess in the distance. A view of the city spans the window, the bright light casting shadows everywhere. Shadows of buildings, of laundry hanging from balconies, of a woman stopping in her jog to stretch on the street below. It’s… impossibly bright. You lean on the windowsill in shock.

On the horizon, the sun continues to wash everything in early morning light. You blink against it, pointing at the window as you turn to Gladio.

“The— the sun—” you stammer in disbelief. You hadn’t seen the sun in _ years. _ “It’s back. It’s— Gladio, what the fuck is going on?”

The door leading in from the hallway opens, Ignis and the doctor coming back in. The doctor gives you a smile, but Ignis appears tense. You’re still pointing at the sun.

“Let’s check your vitals,” the doctor says. They’re the only one approaching you, and you feel immensely weak being guided back to the bed.

No one else seems shocked by the sun’s return. You can’t help looking toward the window while the doctor checks you over. The sky is a clear blue. Surreal.

Gladio and Ignis talk quietly with each other, but you can’t make any of it out. You’re too distracted by the sunlight and the ministrations of the doctor. Gladio keeps scratching his beard. The ring on his hand shines in the light as he moves.

When the doctor is finished, they announce that your visitors have to go to the waiting room for a while. There are tests they have to run you through, apparently. This ends the discussion between Gladio and Ignis, but neither man seems to relax.

“Can my boyfriend stay?” you scramble to ask. Nothing makes sense, and you’re… afraid. You send a pleading look, first to the doctor, then to Gladio.

The doctor looks surprised, gazing between Gladio and Ignis. “That’s— sure. If it’ll comfort you.”

You reach out a hand for Gladio, but he’s not moving. He looks at Ignis, his expression pained.

“I think we should both go wait outside,” he finally says. “Don’t wanna get in the doc’s way. Right, Iggy?”

Ignis doesn’t say anything, his crossed arms unfolding for a hand to come to his hip. You retract your hand and watch with distress as Gladio sends you a soft, apologetic look and leaves the room. Ignis follows, but there’s a lull first. He stands there, a heavy sigh leaving him. Then, you’re alone with the doctor, who’s still trying to put on a cheery expression.

“He’s right,” they say with a smile, pulling up little rails on the sides of the bed. “They’d just get in the way.”

You grab the sleeve of their coat to stop them from walking away from the bed. Their expression softens. With a tilt of your head toward the window, you say, “The sun’s out.”

They look out the window. “Yes, it’s morning.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s painfully matter-of-fact but still confounds you. They gently remove your grip from their coat and begin to pull your bed away from the wall. You lay back, staring out the window until you can’t see it anymore. Pushed out of the room and down the hallway, you look to the doctor for some sense of understanding that you know you won’t find.

“Every sunrise feels like the first one, even now,” they say with a small laugh, guiding the bed into another room. “But I can be sentimental.”

You listen, not understanding and no longer even making an attempt at it. They pull down one of the side rails and offer a hand to help you get up.

“I was helping a refugee with a broken leg when it happened. He thought he was dying when the sky began to light up.” They just keep talking, walking you toward a large machine. “Do you remember what you were doing when the sun returned?”

You lay on the flat surface of the machine, your eyes watering as you try to think about it. “No.” Your voice breaks, and the tears spill over, falling down your temples. “I don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the plot isn't too on the nose. Each chapter is going to follow the same past/present format.  
Come talk to me on tumblr as _ohdaim_  
Comments greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading ❤️


	2. Who am I to think that any of this is up to me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning** for a mention and mild description of bodily fluids (vomit, in this case). Nothing graphic, but worth a warning, I thought!

**M.E. 763**

As it turned out, Ignis never smiled. You’d worked with him for a month now and had yet to see a single iota of amusement or real happiness out of the man. There were moments that pulled at your interest, that made you think that it could _ almost _ happen. Quiet hums he emitted at things you said, the sharp inhale of a breath when something pleasantly out of the ordinary happened.

You smiled, but like most nuances of your exchanges, he never caught them. They were just yours, little things that kept you moving as you did your best to help him in his endeavors. You made sure he never heard it in your voice because, by all accounts, there was never anything to smile about.

Walking with him through Lestallum, brushing shoulders with refugees and hunters alike, you used the dim, flickering lights above to look through your bag for the set of notes you’d penned on all of the things you’d seen on your most recent trip.

You watched the way he stilled as a few children shoved past him, the way he tensed as little feet stepped over his own. The rush of laughter from them while dirty hands picked at each other, a game they were playing. It made you smile, their carefree existence. They weren’t oblivious to the ruin around them but simply endured. It was admirable, if a bit expected, an almost scary possibility that a few of them could’ve been young enough to never have known the sun.

Bag falling closed at your side, notes forgotten for a moment, you fell behind and had to press forth in the alleyway to catch up with him. You schooled your smile before speaking. “Ignis, should I do a rewrite or maybe read out what I’ve written first or…?”

He stopped to look over his shoulder. Not at you but somewhere close, you thought, even though you couldn’t really tell behind his shades.

“Haste will only create sloppy work,” he said. “I say we dine first.”

You arched a brow. “We’re getting food?”

He nodded. “I’ve nearly confused the growling pangs of hunger from your stomach with the cries of daemons for hours now.”

Warmth flushed your cheeks. This was another thing you easily hid from Ignis. He confused you in how he never seemed to find amusement in anything, but made quips that certainly lightened your own mood on the rare occasion he said them. Always disguised as coughs, your startled laughter often left you fumbling as you traveled with him. He never smiled, but there were moments just like this that were _ so close, _ you could almost taste it.

—

You lived in an old row house built circa M.E. 695. It had been your mentor’s home, located deep in the city near EXINERIS. He’d given you the guest room on the second floor when you’d arrived, which you still occupied. It wasn’t a large house by any means, but it was rather spacious for one person.

Along with your room, the second floor held a private bathroom and a library. Most of your time was spent in the latter among the dusty books you’d read over and over again. Even the spiritual— _ yikes. _ Even the pulp novels— _ trash. _ Even the non-fiction— the bane of your existence only because it was the primary type to be found in your parents’ library back in Insomnia. It was for that same reason that non-fiction seemed to be the only genre you had any knack for writing.

After your mentor had passed, you’d not known what to do. There was no rent to pay, no family of his to report to. So you’d locked his bedroom up as an Off Limits Zone and… carried on, letting neighbors and anyone who cared assume you were a townie, lest you be ushered to the over-crowded hotel Leville with the rest of the refugees.

“Watch your step,” you said over your shoulder as the key clicked in the lock of the front door. “The stoop is uneven.”

With a hand on the railing, Ignis ascended behind you. “Can’t say I’m up to watching anything, but the warning is appreciated.” Pushing the door open, you bit your lips to fight a laugh. You were always slipping up in reference to his disability.

_ “Do you _ ** _see_ ** _ this?” _

_ “Ignis, look over there!” _

_ “Keep an eye on this for me?” _

You let the faux pas pass without comment. Any blustering was always met with a quick and smooth dismissal. You’d learned to roll with your mistakes when it came to him on this particular subject. He said nothing himself as he passed you, standing in the little foyer while you shut the door.

“Would you like anything to drink?”

The offer was primarily out of politeness, and, Astrals, you hoped he didn’t ask for Ebony. That he was still able to get his hands on the stuff was a mystery and miracle to you. It made you feel guilty every time you accepted a can from him and ended up secretly pouring it out while his attention was focused on something else.

“Thank you, but I’m quite alright.” He shifted in place, his back straightening when your cat brushed against his leg. “Hello, there.”

You bent to pick her up before she could curl around his ankle and trip him up. “Sorry. My cat is really friendly.” She grew limp in your arms, already purring. “If it’s a bother, I can put her in another room.”

Ignis shook his head. “As stated, I’m fine.”

You led him to the living room, putting the cat down to kick off your shoes and dig your notes out of your bag.

“I couldn’t believe the mosaic in this one.” Excitement spilled out of you heavily and unfiltered. This trip had been easier than the first. Practically a day trip. If _ day _ were still a thing. You spent so much time preparing for it, the journey had been almost underwhelming. Until you’d gotten inside the tomb, nestled deep in a wooded area, out in the open for any experienced hiker to find.

“The crest of the Just,” Ignis said with a nod. He’d heard your long description of it already. He probably didn’t look forward to hearing it again when reviewing your audio notes. You weren’t prone to flowery language; it was almost embarrassing how taken you’d been with the entire thing.

You’d been there, with your parents years before, but you hadn’t recalled the mosaic because no one had been able to unlock the tomb back then. The Just had been a Lucian queen steadfast in her serenity and ability to uphold peace. You remembered learning that when your parents had spent months studying the area with hopes of getting into the place.

They’d wanted to figure out how the people interacted with the Lucian Kings, before and after death. How had the royals affected the daily lives of everyone in the entire kingdom at any given point in time? Way too much, you’d thought, being pulled across Lucis in search for as much information as they could find.

Which, in the end, had only amounted to three tombs, only one of which they’d been able to step into. Your entire life spent searching, and they’d only ever found three.

Seated in an armchair across from you, Ignis crossed one leg over the other. His movement caught your attention before your cloud of thoughts and reminiscence could take you away. “Much as I’d like to talk about today’s outing, I’d rather address the Old Lucian that you’ve yet to translate.”

Right. You put your notes on the coffee table and hopped up from your sofa. “I have to get the stuff from upstairs. Just a minute.”

He nodded, and though you’d learned he was a fairly patient man, you nearly slipped in your rush up the stairs. Socks over hardwood, your turn at the top of the staircase right into the library was tight, a hand gripping the door frame for balance while you switched on the light.

The notes you’d written, the photos taken by Prompto, and the various translations were scattered messily on your desk. You suppressed a sigh as you gathered it all together. Ignis not being able to see it shouldn’t have been an excuse to be so sloppy, you told yourself. He was going to figure out sooner or later just how unremarkable you were and replace you with someone who actually knew what they were doing.

Until then, you needed to keep up the appearance that you were competent. Because Ignis wasn’t vulnerable. He wasn’t one you thought could be taken advantage of. For someone who saw nothing, it seemed as if he could sense _ everything, _ the tilt of his head always preceded a sound by mere seconds. And, just as easily, he’d intuit what you really were.

Someone so far out of your depth, you were treading water at the bottom of the Cygillan ocean.

You were more careful in your descent, stopping at the foot of the staircase to make sure, one last time, that the notes were alright. Entering the living room, you were met with Ignis… cooing. Your cat had climbed into his lap, rolling about comfortably. He smoothed a hand over her, appearing relaxed.

“You like cats?” The question came out of you before you could think to stop it.

He didn’t startle, his head rising to face you. “I suppose.” He kept petting her as you retook your seat on the sofa. His expression, from what little you could read from it, was thoughtful. “I’d never given pets much consideration. Prince Noctis—” A pause, and his face was definitely softening now. “He appreciated all manner of animals.”

You expected him to end the conversation there. He’d never divulged anything personal to you before, especially not about the prince— king?

Instead, he asked, “What’s her name?”

You put the stack of research down on the coffee table next to the notes from your recent trip. “Mister Darcy. I named her after, um—” You laughed a little. You’d been embarrassed to admit it to Gladio when he’d first visited, but saying it to Ignis now felt so much worse, somehow. “After a really charming character in one of my favorite books.”

To your utter surprise, Ignis smiled. “Truly?”

Your face began to burn with slight humiliation. It was a little juvenile, sure, but you’d been on your eighth impassioned read of _ Pride and Prejudice _ the night you’d come home from Duke’s to find the cat—back then a barely mewling kitten—and part of you had convinced yourself you’d be forever alone. Why not name her after a romantic ideal you’d always known to be unrealistic?

“Yeah, so?” You drew up your legs, softly defensive. “It’s a classic.”

“The overall concept is flawed and the opening lines alone are deeply heteronomative.”

You scoffed. Gladio had admitted to reading the book only once, retaining nothing. This was so much more insulting. “What is this, some kind of dissertation? Are we about to get into a deep analysis on gender roles?”

Ignis’ smile actually grew, and you found it bizarre. “Not at all. I’ve read the novel my fair share of times. So I know it well.”

Surprised further, you were quiet for a stretch of time. Mister Darcy lounged on his lap, and he gave her attention, his smile waning but not quite leaving his face. You were slightly off-put by it, still.

“I had a cat growing up,” you said, your mind wandering to memories of the feline you'd left behind in Insomnia. It was a valiant attempt to find a reason not to focus on his mouth and the ghost of the smile that remained there. The cat you’d grown up with was much grumpier than Mister Darcy. But you’d loved her. “My parents named her Frédérique after their favorite archaeologist. I just called her Fred.”

“Frédérique,” Ignis repeated. “You happen to know Tenebraen?”

You snorted before you could catch it with a hand at your mouth. “Nope. My parents really tried. I was tutored in both that and Accordan for years, but nothing ever stuck.”

Hence your struggle with Old Lucian.

Ignis seemed to be traveling along the same train of thought. “We should work through the translation of the inscriptions from the Tomb of the Wanderer.”

Leaning forward, you grabbed the thick file of research documents. “Right.”

Ignis let Mister Darcy stay in his lap for the entire visit. You said nothing of the cat hair that covered his trousers on his way out. With an altered perspective on the man, you carried all of your notes upstairs. Rather than go right to bed, however tired you were, you thumbed through the titles along the shelves in the library, finding the well-worn copy of your favorite book.

Cracking it open after crawling into bed, you relished in the romance. It had been a few years. Seventy pages in, you began to drift off, wakened by a chime from your phone.

** _Gladio:_ ** _ gonna be in Lestallum tomorrow when Iris gets back from Niflheim. want to welcome her party back with me? _

You became more alert at seeing Gladio’s name, smiling at the invitation. Iris had been gone for months, off with a small army to gather information and supplies from Gralea.

** _You:_ ** _ I’d love to. _

Putting the book on your bedside table, you sank back under the blankets, ready to go back to sleep. Another noise from your phone moments later had you rousing again, perhaps too ready to forgo sleep to talk to him.

** _Gladio:_ ** _ see ya by the gate. eta is boob _

You blinked at the message, watching as another came in a second later.

** _Gladio:_ ** _ noon* _

You laughed softly.

** _You:_ ** _ Boob sounds good. Or we could even meet earlier? _

A small bit of nerves pinched at asking. You’d had him over a few times, and he’d taken you out, but that didn’t mean things were very clear between you. You may as well have been friends who occasionally kissed and held hands… and cuddled.

Okay, you were more than friends, and his interest couldn’t have been more apparent. You were still surprised by it, though, and couldn’t help getting nervous putting yourself out there after being alone for so long.

** _Gladio:_ ** _ im sure i can squeeze you into my busy plans _

** _You:_ ** _ First, the mention of boobs and now you want to squeeze me? _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ would do more than that if i thought you could handle it _

The response had been so quick, as if he had zero hesitation. You chewed on your lip, your face growing warm at the implication.

** _You:_ ** _ Show me what you got. I can handle anything. _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ im too damn old to be sending dick pics but... for you babe.. _

That had _ not _ been what you meant. You ran a hand down your face with an embarrassed groan. When your phone chimed again, you were hesitant to look at the image attached.

You weren’t disappointed when you did, though. The center of the photo was a brown dog. Its tongue hang from its mouth. Prompto was squat next to it, grinning.

** _Gladio:_ ** _ heres this dickhead _

You laughed again, a little louder this time. He was at hunter HQ, if Dave’s dog was anything to go by. You knew he spent most of his time there or out in the darkness. Prompto’s base for training, according to the man himself, was Hammerhead. You were surprised he made the trip across Lucis as often as he seemed to.

** _You:_ ** _ I thought it’d be bigger. :/ _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ you’re really askin for it huh _

In truth, you didn’t know what you were asking for. You were just having fun. You grinned through your blush as you kept at it.

** _You:_ ** _ All I’m asking for is you to visit me in the morning. _

** _You:_ ** _ Pure intentions. I’ll even make breakfast. _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ you hate cooking _

** _You:_ ** _ That doesn’t make me incapable. _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ i love how wordy you are even in text _

Your thumbs stilled over the screen of your phone. Before you could even begin to think of a response, more messages began to pop up in a quick succession.

** _Gladio:_ ** _ its cute thats all _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ gettin late _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ should turn in soon _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ to get up early enough for your burnt eggs _

The string of messages moved the comment on your wordiness upward until it disappeared.

** _You:_ ** _ I was going to make cup noodles, actually. _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ woman after my own heart _

With a swallow, you began to type _ Apparently so| _ only to erase it and try _ It’s only fair since you have mi _|

No— ah, what should you say?

** _Gladio:_ ** _ night _

Oh. You took too long.

** _You:_ ** _ Sweet dreams. _

Rather than stew over whether or not you should’ve included a heart emote, you plugged your phone into its charger and went to sleep. Your dreams were filled with a beefy gentleman gruffly confessing that he loved you, most ardently.

—

The hunters who’d left on the expedition to Niflheim were already spilling into Lestallum by the time you and Gladio met Prompto by the city’s entrance. So many familiar faces, weary and covered in grime. Even if you didn’t know any names, the majority of who passed certainly recognized you.

“See you at Duke’s tonight,” one said, turning around to walk backwards and point at you. Running right into another hunter didn’t deter him. “Save me a cold one.”

You didn’t make an effort to correct him before he disappeared into the throng of people.

“You know that guy?” Gladio asked. He peered past you to where the man had gone.

You shrugged. “As much as I know any random hunter I used to serve at the bar.” Most faces tended to blend together after years of working there.

Prompto, who’d been abnormally quiet but no less than the usual amount of restless since you’d arrived, began to shift his weight from heel to toe, a grin crossing his face. “She’s back.”

You thought he meant Iris at first, and you kept your eyes peeled for her pretty face and tattooed arms among the crowd. Instead, Prompto lifted a hand in a wide wave over his head as someone else appeared through the Lestallum entrance checkpoint.

“Aranea!”

The woman looked in your direction, a smile coming to her face as she grew closer. Her clothes differed from the other hunters, her midriff and cleavage bared openly between tight leather. You’d thought Iris was brave always going sleeveless, but this was something else entirely.

Stopped in front of you, Aranea placed a hand on her hip. Her gloves were taloned, and you wondered how she didn’t break skin. “A welcome party? You shouldn’t have.”

You wanted to tell her you _ didn’t. _ You didn’t even know this woman. But, in a way, you kind of did. By name, at least. Aranea was someone Iris had talked about more than once; she was someone many looked up to. You’d never met her because she didn’t frequent dives between hunts, preferring a clear head, apparently.

Prompto’s laugh broke you out of your thoughts. He stepped toward her, but faltered before throwing an arm over her shoulder. You could see, even under the dim streetlights, that he was blushing fiercely. His presence on this side of Lucis was suddenly much less mysterious and surprising.

While Prompto bumbled and Aranea laughed, you felt Gladio slide an arm around your waist. His fingers dug lightly into your side, and you squirmed, shifting closer, probably his entire intention. The hold was possessive and unfamiliar, but you liked it. More than the breakfast of cup noodles—food was, like everything, at a premium, and you hadn’t been kidding—you’d had with him that morning. More than the roam you’d let him have of your library and his terrible _ all these books, and the only one I’m checking out is you _ line that had sparked a heated moment that distracted for so long you’d nearly been late.

Iris finally made an appearance as you leaned into Gladio’s touch. She grinned widely, her gaze quickly flicking between you. “When did _ this _ happen?”

Being called out made you want to shrink back. Were you being too vulnerable? Discomfort began to set in, and you tried to draw out of Gladio’s hold. His arm was firm but loosened against your resistance. You avoided his gaze as you separated yourself, crossing your arms and forcing a smile to Iris.

Friend that she was, she caught on and spoke up, brushing her dirty bangs out of her face. “Biggs found a gramophone while we were in Tenebrae. I thought those things were obsolete even before the world went dark, but he got it to work.”

You appreciated that she was trying to change the subject, feeling guilty that you’d made things awkward. You felt Gladio’s gaze burning into the side of your face.

Aranea spoke next, looking to Gladio. “Is four eyes around? I thought he planned to work with somebody in town.”

Gladio nodded toward you. “She’s his new guide.”

You anticipated, based on the intimidating air Aranea put off, that she would size you up. Instead, she nodded and met your eyes. “He better be paying you well.”

You blinked. “He is.”

She pointed at you, her expression serious. “Good. He can be demanding.”

Not knowing what she could possibly mean by that, you nodded and let it go. So far, Ignis hadn’t seemed all that demanding, but maybe you hadn’t noticed only because you applied so much pressure on yourself already.

—

Sweat lined your brow, your upper lip, even your cheeks. You felt gross, wiping at it as you followed after Prompto, Ignis on your heel. You'd been hiking for days. It was going on your third now, nearly <strike>boob</strike> noon as you found yourself in an expressly heated area of Mt. Ravatogh.

The entire mountain was a volcano that was due to erupt anytime. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Yet, there you were, sweating as you climbed higher. All because Ignis remembered a tomb there. He’d heard of someone suspicious roaming around the area recently, too, though you wondered who was also wandering the area enough to report such activity.

You were paid to blindly follow and never brought your questions forth for that very reason. Ignis was nice to you, even when you didn’t understand him—he smiled, he actually smiled sometimes—and you liked him. He made you _ think. _

“Define diffusive,” he said, right after you’d used the word in a sentence about the volcanic rock you traversed.

“It’s…” You watched Prompto step around a steamy spot ahead and followed his lead. “Diffusive. Um, it describes when two things kind of come together… naturally. Down to their atoms.”

You weren’t really sure of the definition but felt confident in what you’d said. Ignis either agreed with you or didn’t know the definition himself. He followed you quietly for a time after that, only offering the occasional quip when Prompto complained.

Surely, you were nearing the peak. At least you fucking hoped so. It felt as if you’d been going in circles for the past day, at least. You were exhausted, and your companions seemed to think it would be _ any day now. _ You hadn’t prepared for such a trip. Ignis hadn’t said you’d be mountain climbing. No chafing yet, but you were covered in filth and running out of drinkable water.

You were deep in thought on this when you rounded a corner between high walls of rock. The area was swathed in daemons, small goblins and things you were fairly sure you could take care of easily. You went forth without hesitation, bending in your step to pull the dagger from your boot.

You heard Prompto and Ignis yelling for you to stop, to wait, but you didn't fully register the objections until something louder roared in the darkness. Directly to your right, it was accompanied by the sound of thunder. Or something _ like _ thunder. With no time to react, you were thrown back into craggy rock. The stone bit into your shoulder blades, painfully sharp.

Your lantern flickered off, washing everything in black. Footsteps, yelling, and growling were drowned out by a ringing in your ears. You slumped against the rock, curling inward and falling to your knees.

Someone grabbed your upper arm and tried to pull you up. Lamplight, blue and erratic, kept shining in your face. You crawled up into a stand, pushing the person away. You realized it was Prompto when a gun materialized in his hand as he backed off.

Sore fingers pried at the lamp clipped to your jacket, your heart pounding in your chest. The ringing noise wouldn’t stop, building up a pulse between your ears. Wind rushed around you, and sparks of magic lit up the darkness as Ignis and Prompto fought whatever you were too dazed to see. 

Fruitless in your attempt to get the lamp to turn on, you gave up and bent down to search for your dagger. Another hand gripped your arm, this one larger and firmer.

“You need to make haste,” Ignis said, pushing you away from the rocky wall. “Go!”

You stumbled, the roaring of the daemon overpowering much else as wind continued to whip around you. Ignis’ grip on your arm was torn away, and he cried out, the light from his lantern washing over you, then disappearing as he fell forward. The crunch of him hitting the ground made you stall.

He wasn’t getting up, his lamplight shining directly on your feet. You ran to him, ignoring the pain that pierced your body and the cacophonous noise of the daemon Prompto continued to struggle with. You dropped to your knees, unable to focus clearly on what parts of Ignis you were touching in the darkness. He didn’t move, even when your hands traveled from the lamp at his lapel to his sides. You tried to lift him, but lithe as he was, he was too heavy, a dead weight in your weak arms.

“Ignis.” You gripped the front of his jacket, shaking him. “Ignis, get up.”

You couldn’t hear any response out of him, and alarms began to blare in your mind. Lifting one of his arms over your shoulder, you hooked it at your neck and tried again to lift him. This time, he rose with you, long legs bumbling along the uneven ground. The only thought on your mind was to _ get away, _ and you wished he would move faster.

Arm about his waist, you led him up the incline. Prompto was somewhere behind you, fighting still. You used the shifting light from Ignis’ body lantern to guide your trek up, fighting the urge to look back and call for Prompto to come with you. He knew what he was doing; Ignis had said as much in the past.

Rounding a wide corner in the path, you were startled—relieved, really—when Ignis’ lamp illuminated an open doorway set into a wall built into the side of the mountain. The stone around it was carved, recognizable much like the previous tombs visited. You hefted Ignis’ weight in your arms and pressed forward.

Just inside, you set him down, his back against a wall. His chest was heaving, the lamplight shifting along the intricately carved stone with each breath. Hands on his face, his shoulders, you checked him over for any injuries. When one of your hands met his side, just below the rib cage, he groaned through gritted teeth.

“J-just a bit tender there,” he bit out, hand gripping your wrist to pull it away. “I need to—”

You were relieved to hear his voice, the noise of the fight now distant. You pried his hand from your wrist, shrugging your pack off your back to tear into it for supplies. You switched on the emergency torch, shining it over him while your other hand continued to dig into your bag.

Ignis’ shirt was bloody, his jacket torn. You were hesitant to shine the light in his face, but wanted to make sure he wasn’t hurt elsewhere. His mouth was curled in agony, offering a shiny glimpse of his teeth. You checked his head and found no obvious injury.

Becoming impatient with yourself, you put the torch down and lifted your pack to upend it, spilling the contents onto the ground. The first aid kit had bandages and antiseptic and an entire mess of things you hadn’t ever wanted to need, and you went for it as soon as the box clattered against the stone floor.

Pulling Ignis’ filthy jacket off, you ripped his shirt to look at the gash in his side. It didn’t appear deep, blood already drying and clotting in places, but it spanned a length larger than his hand, which he continued to press against the flow of it. You forced his hand away, covering the wound with a wad of gauze. He groaned, his hand then moving to the small storage pack attached to his leg. You’d never seen him use it and barely paid attention to it now in your rush to get him patched up.

Holding the gauze firmly against the gash to stop any more blood loss, you used your teeth to rip open the plastic covering the cap on the tube of antiseptic. Ignis kept moving, and you tried to make him stop, putting down the ointment to steady him with a grip at his shoulder.

He withdrew something red from his small pack, and you stopped, confused at the sight of the… feather? He lifted it up, his breathing labored and face filthy. When his hand closed around it a moment later, the feather burst into sparks of light, and flames licked the air around his entire body. You jerked back, falling down in alarm.

Ignis didn’t seem bothered, the flames dissipating as quickly as they had appeared. He heaved a heavy breath of relief, though you were even more confused than ever at what had just happened. You’d seen magic courtesy of a few of the Glaives-turned-hunters the single time you’d visited hunter HQ, but nothing like _ that. _

Closing the distance between you, somewhat hesitantly, you checked the wound again to find it completely scabbed over. Not questioning how lucky and improbable that was, you went back to treating him with your limited knowledge on first aid. You’d tended to people after fights in the bar before, but a few cuts and bruises were vastly different than the large gash in Ignis’ side.

It wasn’t until you were reinforcing the gauze with medical tape around the wound that you realized the world had gone quiet.

“Prompto,” Ignis said, sitting up. “Is he—”

You didn’t know, and that terrified you. But Ignis needed to let you finish with him first. You pressed him back against the wall, your hand firm on his shoulder. While you sat back to eye your handiwork, a bluish light appeared in the open doorway, swaying with footsteps that rebounded off the stone walls.

Prompto looked from you to Ignis, a smile crossing his face. “You made it out.”

“Not by choice,” Ignis spoke up before you could. “She took me from the fight. Are you alright?”

Prompto’s back hit the wall with a soft thud, and he slid down until he was sitting near Ignis. Just out of arm’s reach. “I took care of it. Just gotta—” Prompto dug a hand into an inner pocket of his vest, coming away with a red feather. He held it in both hands, bringing it to his face as it dissipated, just like the one Ignis had before, in a sparkle of light, flames coursing over his body for several seconds. “Nice.”

You stared between the men, then stood up to look around the tomb. It was hard to focus, the silence stretching long, broken only by your observations, spoken quietly into your phone, which was so close to dying, you almost didn’t see the point. You knew Ignis and Prompto, like Gladio, were special. You weren’t close to understanding them or how any of this—though what _ this _ was, you were also unsure—worked or your place between them.

Your phone went black and unresponsive in the middle of your description of the coffer, and you sighed. Turning to Ignis, you saw him wiping his glasses on a small cloth. He did it often, always while at camp, pulled the handkerchief from a pocket and cleaned his glasses as if it mattered. Maybe the practice was just a comfort to him. You stopped yourself from speculating and went to his side to store your phone in your pack.

“Based on a few of the statues,” you said, sitting down near both of them. Prompto had fallen asleep sitting there, but Ignis faced you, his eyes unfocused but suspiciously close to looking directly at you. You cleared your throat and set about reorganizing your pack. “This is the Tomb of the Fierce, right?”

Ignis tilted his head, his hands going still. “It is.”

You shoved things about in your bag, annoyed but not understanding why. The disarray of your things was your own fault. You’d been in a desperate rush to help him. Only for him to place blame on you for leaving Prompto to fight alone.

Alright, so you understood exactly why you were irritated.

His silence wasn’t helping. He’d never gotten so hurt before. You couldn’t recall, in your short acquaintanceship, a time when Ignis had _ ever _ gotten hurt. That’s what you attributed the change to. That, and none of you had eaten an actual meal in three days. Energy bars and strips of dried meat could only get you so far.

Prompto seemed to be the only one with any semblance of kindness left in him. Now he snored softly, head tilted back against the wall and body limp. You closed your pack, holding it close to lean on it as you stared at Ignis. He slid his glasses on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose and into place. You watched, with more interest than you cared to admit, the way he folded the handkerchief before putting it back into his pocket.

He had so much grace, even in the face of— of this. Of the darkness, the grime that covered him, and the injury in his side that made him grunt lightly as he shifted his position. When he faced your direction, you started, as you always did. He probably knew you watched him. He probably thought you were silly. He surely wasn’t happy with you right now.

It was unfair.

“I would’ve went back for Prompto,” you said, the words coming out before you could think to stop them. You bit your lip, closing your eyes.

“I’m certain that you would have.” Ignis’ voice was low. Too deep to be a whisper, but soft. “Though, to what end? You’ve no training in physical combat, and it’s not what you were hired to do.”

You opened your eyes to send a glare his way. “So what, I’m not supposed to help? You haven’t complained so far.”

“You hadn’t gotten in the way before.” He crossed his arms, then seemed to think better of it, one of his hands going to his injured side. He’d put on his jacket while you explored, but you’d ripped his shirt open. There was little protecting him beyond the bandage you’d applied.

A sigh heaved its way out of you. Crawling, somewhat awkwardly, you went to him and drew his hand away from his side. “Don’t touch it.”

He frowned but listened. “We would have dispatched the daemon sooner if you’d given me a moment to regroup rather than drag me here.”

Your glare still boring into him unseen, you focused on gently touching the medical tape to make sure his moving hadn’t loosened anything. “You could just say thank you.”

“Thank you?” It was derisive, appalled. “For not listening to me or for leaving Prompto behind?”

You resisted the urge to dig your thumb into his wound. “For _ helping _ you?”

“As I said, that isn’t the reason why you’re in my employ.”

You backed away, finding nothing wrong with the bandage. Knocking your pack onto its side, you hit it with your fist. Mostly in an attempt to make it comfortable to rest your head on. Partly to let out the building frustration. Where had the nice conversation gone? The quiet questions and inquisitive mind prying at yours for as much information as it could get?

You laid down with your back toward him. You may not have quite understood what he paid you for, but it sure as hell wasn’t enough to be dealing with this.

—

After a hot shower—bless EXINERIS for allowing your water heater to still operate at full capacity—you felt reborn, perusing your library for something new to read while you sipped on tea. You’d made the trip back from Mt. Ravatogh in one piece, entirely silent save for pleasantries. Ignis had handed you your payment without the usual prompt to meet with him within the next week to discuss what you’d found.

You weren’t going to let it bother you. There wasn’t much to talk about, anyway. Every tomb was beginning to look the same, presenting only the vaguest variation in design. There was much Ignis wasn’t telling you, but you didn’t care. You never had. If he was going to fire you, you were sitting on a small stack of cash. Enough to get you through a few months of unemployment, at least.

A knock at your front door startled you. No one ever visited, and the rare few who did always warned you first. On your way to the door, Ignis sprang to mind, and by the time you were unlocking the deadbolt, you were anxious that he’d come to finally get rid of you. Steeling yourself, you cracked the door just enough to peek through.

Gladio stood on your stoop, idly scratching the stubble on his jaw. He tilted his head, meeting your eyes. Then, his hand fell away, pushed into a pocket while he cleared his throat.

“Hey.”

You stared at him, the door creaking as you slowly opened it wider. “Hi.”

He rolled a shoulder, looking away for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “You didn’t let me know you were back.”

“I didn’t know you were in town.” It was a lie. You knew. Prompto had complained about Gladio’s presence in Lestallum meaning he’d have a hard time getting one of the supply runners to take him back to Hammerhead. Apparently they were all very much taken with the Shield.

Gladio’s broad chest expanded with a sigh, and you felt guilty. You’d been so ready to be alone, your nerves frayed by Ignis’ mere proximity for far too long, that you’d forgotten—avoided—your boyfriend.

“You want to come in?” you asked, opening the door wider.

He shook his head, a somewhat sheepish smile coming to his face. It was uncharacteristic, making you pause in wary confusion.

“You wanna come out instead? I’ve got—” he pointed over his shoulder at absolutely nothing. “I’ve got something to show ya.”

Entirely uncertain but feeling sorry, you nodded. All you needed was a change into publicly acceptable attire. You told him you’d be five minutes, and you met him in your foyer in twenty without a single complaint. He grinned at your apologetic look. It was too comforting, too easy going. You bit your lip to keep from smiling in return. 

He took you to a building he said the hunters shared. _ When we’re in town, it’s where we stay since the hotel is off limits. _ No one was there while you traveled through. He took you up to the rooftop, and if the world had been alright, you could’ve seen the stars. He had dinner waiting for you—an actual warm meal that wasn’t instant noodles—at a set table. You looked between him and the meal, too shocked to say anything.

All you could think about was, if the world had been _ alright, _ if nothing had happened, you wouldn’t have this. Gladio wouldn’t have cared to know you existed. Another layer of guilt, deeper this time, settled within you.

Because, suddenly, you were okay with the darkness.

—

The uppermost floor of the building was Gladio’s— for the night. He’d lit candles, and apparently Biggs had given up his found gramophone for the residents because you were seduced by the smooth tones that came from the ancient device. Gladio swayed with you, laughing when you were tickled by his beard touching your neck.

When he lifted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around him to keep you from falling, you were hesitant. This new territory was exhilarating, but you— He walked you to the bedroom— You hadn’t— The bed bounced when you landed on your back— Not once had you ever— He crawled over you, imposing, his gaze devouring.

“I’ve never done this before,” you spoke up, all nerves.

He stopped and rose a brow. “Really?”

You were embarrassed but pressed forth, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “The opportunity never came up.”

“You worked at Duke’s for years,” he said, lingering over you. His gaze became playful. “And you didn’t have a single one-night stand with a hot guy at the bar?”

Before the bar, you’d worked at EXINERIS, which only employed women, a gender you just weren’t attracted to, unfortunately. Before that, you’d lived with your mentor, and vastly older men were also a faction that didn’t quite _ do it _ for you. Before that… all of your time had been monopolized by your parents. It was self-explanatory. “I don’t _ do _ that kind of thing.”

His look softened. “Hey, it’s nothing to be embarrassed over. I’ve been saving myself, too.”

“I’m not _ saving _ mys—” You paused when his words fully caught up to you. “You haven’t either?”

With a look of total seriousness, he said, “Never. Go easy on this delicate flower.”

All you could do was stare up at him, disbelieving. You couldn’t have guessed that about him. He was so flirty. He rarely wore a shirt. He was the definition of shameless. He— You scowled as a laugh began to rumble out of him, shaking his broad chest.

“You liar.” You jabbed him, and he grabbed your hand to hold it down against the mattress. His laughter only grew, and it made you want to jab him harder. “I’ve heard you talk about past conquests when I worked at the bar.”

You tried to poke at him more, but he held you down, the rumble of laughter quieting. You couldn’t believe you’d bought it for even a second. Gladio had a reputation. And you were okay with that. You liked Gladio. He was nice to you, and he made you _ feel. _

—

Sore and thoughtful, you walked home the next morning with much less shame than you thought this very walk was named for. It had been… unlike what you’d expected. Softer at first, then rougher than you thought you could handle. Gladio had been patient, he’d used his mouth to help you relax—you squeezed your eyes shut at the memory—and Astrals, had it worked. Really damn well.

You were deep into a shameful reminisce of Gladio bending you into a position you hadn’t thought yourself capable of when you rounded the corner onto your block. Leaning on the railing at your stoop, Ignis stood in wait. You stopped at the corner, your expression flattening into a glare he would never see.

He pushed off the railing when you walked closer, the yellow lamplight making his hair shine. “Good morning.”

You hadn’t known what to expect after the silence. Except to be let go. You crossed your arms as you stopped in front of him. “Morning.”

A frown marked his face, and the leather of his gloves made a noise when his hands curled into fists. You braced for what came next. You’d counted and recounted your funds, positive you would do okay without this job. You liked what you did, you’d liked _ him, _ but you were beyond trying to understand him or what he wanted from you.

“I’d like to apologize.” He adjusted his glasses and held out a hand. “As I travel further, I will need someone who can thoroughly take apart each tomb. I need someone to… be my eyes, as it were. But I’ll also need someone more experienced in combat. I can’t protect you when things are growing more perilous.”

These words had you faltering despite having expected them. “Oh.”

He cleared his throat, dropping his arm to his side. “I suggest you train your endurance and better learn to defend yourself in preparation for the next expedition.”

Relief filled you at the quiet explanation. As much as you resented the fact, you needed this job. It paid better than anything else you’d done since landing yourself in Lestallum, and you were perfectly—strangely—qualified, in whatever sense he seemed to think you were.

“Okay. I’ll work on it.”

His frown eased into a flat line. “It seems you’ve already begun. Thank you for your aid during our last excursion. I shouldn’t have reacted so harshly when you were simply doing what was right.”

“That’s…” You took in the way he stood, back straight but face pointed downward. He would’ve been looking at his shoes if he could see. Such a shameful look didn’t suit him, but that wasn’t for you to point out. “Thank you, Ignis.”

He nodded, one hand lifting to adjust the cuff of the glove on his other. “If you have any objections or grievances to air out, now is a good time.” He dropped his hands again. This time, they met behind his back, and his broad shoulders straightened. It suited him so much better, and that was something even less appropriate for you to point out. “So that we may begin anew.”

You mulled on the invitation, wondering where you could even begin. You had so many questions about what it was he was looking for. Knowing would only help you take note of the details that actually mattered. Instead, as he stood there, the only thing to come out of you was, “I hate Ebony.”

He tilted his head slightly, and you imagined he was blinking behind his shades. “Is that so?”

You lifted hands as if to placate, then dropped them to your sides with a small huff. The words began to spill from you, the stop of your mouth gone by his request for grievances. “It needs sugar and cream. It needs _ something. _ Ignis, it tastes _ off. _ All of it was made at least seven years ago, and I don’t know where you keep _ finding _ it.”

By the time you closed your mouth, you were standing closer, right in front of him, your hands up in confusion. You crossed your arms again to keep from gesticulating, should you rant about anything else.

Ignis was quiet for a moment, his mouth twitching with what could’ve been a smile. It was hard to tell in the dim light. He seemed to be looking directly down at you, but when he reached out a hand, it was just off the mark.

Not knowing what he wanted, you shifted toward him, his palm meeting your upper arm. Closing his hand, he squeezed your arm, then let go.

“Alright. I won’t force my coffee on you any longer.”

You rolled your eyes, the relief in you building into something else. Something comfortable. You hadn’t anticipated humility from him. “Thanks, it was torture.” You nearly told him what you’d actually been doing with the coffee every time he gave it to you, but you invited him in for tea and discussion instead.

He followed you inside, readily questioning if your tea leaves weren’t as out of date as his Ebony was. Such hypocrisy, he said. He made you laugh as you led him to your kitchen, and for the first time since knowing him, you didn’t try hiding it.

* * *

**M.E. 768**

You flip through the calendar the doctor gave you to look over. To acclimate yourself to the present, they said. It does nothing but deeply unsettle you.

_ 768 _

That means you’ve lost five years. Five entire years of your life. You want to throw the calendar clear across the room. Then, as you decide that nothing matters anymore, you do just that. It clunks against the wall and clatters to the floor. Unsatisfying, but no longer in your line of sight, which is an improvement.

You pace your hospital room. They’ve locked the door, and you don’t know why they’ve seemingly labeled you a flight risk. They’re right, you admit to yourself. You’d run if you could. Your house isn’t far from the hospital. If you weren’t on one of the upper floors, you would be climbing out the window already.

You don’t touch the control for the television. You’re not quite ready for that. So far today, you’ve had no visitors aside from the doctor and nurse. The doctor checks on you intermittently. The nurse makes sure you eat. He tries, anyway. He left your breakfast next to the bed before leaving earlier. You haven’t touched it, and your stomach growls. Hospital food is lifeless and tasteless and all kinds of -lesses that you don’t want to put in your mouth. 

You round the bed to look out the window. The sun is high in the blue, cloudy sky. You can’t see the Disc of Cauthess or anything beyond the city skyline and wonder if the world is vibrant and green once again.

You wonder if Gladio will visit.

He and Ignis had stuck around the day before, but neither had talked to you much after the doctor had run the tests on you. Ignis had asked how you felt. Gladio had told him you looked _ kinda roughed up but better. _ He’d been so uncomfortable.

You walk to your bathroom next. Fingers touching your hair, gaze raking over your face, you feel like crying. You don’t let it happen, but it wells there, thick in your chest. So heavy it burns your throat.

Of course Gladio is uncomfortable. You aren’t _ you. _ You’re in the body of some older version of yourself only they know. They don’t know _ you. _ That’s probably why no one had come to visit today. Their friend is gone. You’re here now, and they don’t want you.

Gladio doesn’t want you.

You pull at your hair, trying to will it to grow longer. Breaths force their way out of you too quickly, and your eyes begin to water. Letting go of your hair, you rub at them to stop the moisture from building. You _ won’t _ cry.

The door to your room opens, but you don’t move from your place in front of the mirror. The doctor can wait, you think. A shuddered breath leaves you, shaking your chest. Not a cry. You rub circles into your eyes with the tips of your fingers and inhale deeply. You hear footsteps and compose yourself. Long breath out, you turn to the open doorway and startle at Ignis standing there.

No need to even compose yourself, then.

You step away from the sink. Even though you aren’t about to cry, you don’t trust your voice. So you step toward him, unthinking in your action, and put a hand on his arm. You squeeze before letting go, and though his mouth parts, he doesn’t say anything.

You’d spent a large part of the morning trying to think about your last interaction with everyone you could remember. It makes your head ache, but no more than it already does. Looking at Ignis now, you remember it clearly. The last time you recall seeing Ignis prior to waking up in this nightmare, he’d been walking next to you. The Mrylwood had been eerily quiet. Aranea had gone ahead, ready to fight her way through to the nearest haven.

He’d said something, but you can’t remember what it could’ve been. The images, the flash of his smile and his hand keeping you steady so you wouldn't trip over a large root that had crawled up from the ground. You remember that, but not what he’d said. It had likely been a remark on your clumsiness. Now, he stands before you appearing almost uncertain.

“Come to tell me I’m an alien or something?” Your question is absurdly facetious; things can’t possibly get worse.

“If you were, I wouldn’t know,” he says, as if anticipating some kind of response like this. “I’ve come to take you home.”

You can’t stop the rise of excitement at this. “Really? They’re letting me go?”

He nods stepping away from the doorway and into your hospital room. You follow him with a small smile, your dry lips pulling tightly. You are itching to get home even though the doctor had said photos and familiar things should spark memories. You’re in no rush to remember. Not yet. If remembering means you have to relive what brought you here, you aren’t sure you’re ready.

Ignis puts a hand on his hip, and it’s a small comfort. He’s still the same Ignis. “Gather your things. I—” He cleared his throat. “Gladio and I spoke to the doctor. You’re clear to be discharged now that you’re awake. They should be here soon.”

You perk up unintentionally at knowing Gladio is here. Another pace around the room, you look for your things. There isn’t much, most things sitting on a table near the bed. Your busted phone. A moogle plush from Iris. Flowers from Talcott. You still don’t know who that is. Your clothes are on the chair next to it, clean and folded. Courtesy of Ignis, apparently. You look from them to your boots that rest on the floor next to the chair.

You really don’t have much, do you? Looking at Ignis, standing near one of the countertops, his fingers idly tapping on its surface as he waits, you’re heartened in knowing that you seem to have some_one. _

—

You lift your hand to block the sun from your eyes, squinting at Ignis as he began across the hospital’s atrium in the wrong direction. Gladio stands on the sidewalk, talking into a phone, and you follow toward him tentatively.

“…home soon, babe,” he says, voice low. He chuckles, and you feel it in your chest, a pain that pulls tight. “Alright, professor.”

He doesn’t turn to you and Ignis until he’s shoving his phone into a pocket seconds later. He looks from you to Ignis, then holds out a hand to take the flowers you hold in an arm. “Here, let me.”

You don’t. “I’m fine.” It comes out sharply as you take a step back. The flowers are light, and you don’t need his help. Ignis is the one taking the brunt of things, carrying a bag of your few personal items and the medicines you’d been prescribed on the way out.

Gladio drops his hand, turning his attention to Ignis. “We ready to head out?”

Ignis tilts his head your way. “I believe so. Are you feeling up to a long car ride?”

Confused, you shake your head. “Car? I live three blocks from here.”

Gladio frowns, his look at Ignis growing more pointed. “You haven’t told her?”

At that, Ignis sighs. “Gladio.”

The larger man huffs, and you glance between them, hating the way they keep talking as if you aren’t standing _ right here. _

“Iggy, she should—”

Ignis cuts him off, the bag in his hand crinkling as he crosses his arms. “You heard as well as I what the doctor said. It’s best to ease her into… everything.”

“There is no _ easing _ in with this. You—” This time, he cuts himself off, looking at you before turning away from you both. “You’re the boss.”

Ignis opens his mouth, then closes it. A moment later, he turns to you again. “You don’t live in Lestallum anymore. You haven’t for quite some time.”

Based on what little you’re able to gather from listening to them, you’d assumed as much already. “Where are we going?”

“Insomnia. We moved there after—” He pauses to purse his lips for a moment. “After the dawn’s return.”

You’d lost hope of ever seeing your home city again. Everything so far has felt like a dream. With the sun warming your skin and the incessant pain in your head that never quite goes away, you know it isn’t. It’s real, and Ignis is serious.

“What about my old house?” You point in the general direction of where it should be, but Gladio is still faced away from you, so the motion is missed entirely.

Ignis’ arms loosen, and he shifts the bag from one hand to another. “You gave ownership of the place to someone in need. He and his family live there now.”

You falter, the loss of it hitting you. You can’t even question why you’d give up your home. How selfish and absurd would that sound? Your library, everything it had contained, gone. Flashes of Gladio leaning on your desk, fingers trailing up your neck as you poured over notes, come to mind. You run your free hand down your face to get rid of the wayward thoughts.

“I…” You keep your focus on Ignis. Gladio feels like a pinprick in the corner of your eye. “Let’s go, then.”

—

It’s an astounding relief to find the world had bounced back from the long night. You’re in the back of an unfamiliar black car, unwilling to look at Gladio, who seems to have a lead foot in the driver’s seat. Everything is tense. You ignore that. Whatever they’re disagreeing over, you don’t have room to worry about.

The world is alive.

You lean against the window, staring out at nothing, at everything. The ride grows long, marked by the passing greenery and the sun as it travels across the sky. Crossing into Duscae early in the afternoon, you pick through your bag of things. It’s still close to nothing, but the novelty of the sunlit world is beginning to wear off.

The moogle plush is cute. You run fingers over its soft surface. So you and Iris are still friends. That’s… something. You keep the doll in your lap while you bring the flowers up to smell them. The card attached is simple.

_ Best wishes for a full recovery. — Talcott _

You flip it back and forth between fingers and admire the colorful petals. “Is Talcott my boyfriend?”

Neither of them answer at first. Gladio actually heaves out a quiet chuckle, and you bristle. Is it such a strange question? Gladio had said Talcott had been the one to rush to the hospital to see you.

Ignis looks over his shoulder, much less amused. “I’m afraid not.”

You put the flowers down and look out the window, not willing to let yourself deflate. So Gladio really isn’t yours anymore. His discomfort had been one thing, but to see him so unbothered by it… You mull on that thought bitterly and hold the moogle close. The ache in your chest is beginning to overpower the one in your head.

Forehead thudding against the cold glass of your window, you spot clouds on the horizon, grey plumes in the distance.

—

It doesn’t rain until you’re at a pit stop in Alstor. The drops are heavy, and you step out from the Crow’s Nest with an outstretched hand, palm upward. Surprisingly warm, it dampens your skin and curls your hair with unkempt frizziness.

Gladio steps out after you and stops by your side. You give him a tentative look that he meets. You hate how handsome he looks, how the fuller beard accentuates his strong jaw.

“It feels like you were holding me in your arms only last week,” you admit. Maybe you should be embarrassed, but you’re just sad.

Gladio doesn’t look away. “Last week, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to talk to you again.”

You lower your hand, as unbothered by the rain as he appears to be. “And the week before that?”

“We were in the Mrylwood.”

You frown. What he says doesn’t fit, doesn’t make any sense. But nothing has so far. “Why? Why aren’t we together anymore?”

He looks over his shoulder then, toward the wide window that spanned the side of the diner. You follow his gaze to see Ignis talking to someone inside.

“This isn’t what you wanna hear,” Gladio says, regaining your attention. His brows are pinched, meeting in a furrow. “I’m married. You can’t say shit like that. I’m sorry.”

“You’re _ sorry,_” you repeat flatly, hoping to hide how much it cuts you to hear it directly. “You’re married, and you’re sorry, that’s it?”

He frowns, his jaw working. “Yeah, I’m sorry this happened to you, but I’m not—” His expression eases, his eyes searching your face. “I’m not the same person. Neither are you. That was a _ long _ time ago.”

You feel your heart crawl up your throat. It chokes you, and when you force yourself to breathe, your inhale is shuddering. You can’t maintain eye contact, his sincerity only serving as salt to the wound. The rain begins to lighten up, which is terribly unfair because your eyes are watering.

“So,” you say, your voice breaking. “What’s your wife like?” You bite your lower lip in hopes of stopping your chin from quivering.

Gladio sighs, and you see him shake his head in the corner of your vision. “We’re not gonna talk about this right now.”

He waves for you to walk forward, then goes ahead himself. You don’t follow him to the car, letting the rain mist you further. You feel free to wipe at your eyes. A soft cry leaves your throat involuntarily.

“May I?”

The sudden voice doesn’t even startle you. Looking up at Ignis, you sniffle hard and clear your throat. “What?”

He lifts a hand. The frown on his face is soft, giving off _ sad _ rather than the annoyance you’d expect out of someone finding you crying. He feels sorry for you.

Feeling just as sorry for yourself, you step toward him and close the distance with a hug. Your breaths shake your shoulders as they leave you. Ignis is hesitant, his body growing rigid.

When he does rest a hand on your back, he immediately draws it away. “You’re soaked right through.”

You’re crying, your face pressed into his chest. You’re crying, and you want to mask it with a self-deprecating laugh. It doesn’t work, the sound coming out in a wavering sob.

As the rain fully abates, Ignis grips you by the shoulders and pushes you away. Murmuring a quiet apology—you’re not embarrassed, you’re fucking mortified—you break from his light grip and walk to the car.

It’s nothing but silence once you close the door. Misty rain drizzles the window in a quiet patter, barely heard over your still heavy breathing. Your hands are shaky when buckling. By the time you’re strapped in, Ignis is getting into the passenger seat in front of you. He reaches an arm around the headrest, his jacket landing in your lap.

“Warm yourself.” His tone is clipped, and when he turns to Gladio with a scowl next, your crying is stilled in quiet shock. “You’re a bastard. Don’t you think—”

“Save it,” Gladio cuts him off gruffly. “Let’s get going.”

The ride into Leide is accompanied by the warmth of Ignis’ jacket over you, a resurgence of your headache, and darkness. You can’t see the stars for the clouds, and it’s a terrible comfort.

—

You try to open the car door before Gladio pulls it to a complete stop. The handle doesn’t give. You pull it repeatedly, frantic at the way it clicks uselessly. Your stomach churns, acid building in your throat. You groan, “Open.”

It’s a mistake. You expel onto your lap, your body curling forward. You jerk at the door handle harder, wiping at your mouth with the sleeve of Ignis’ jacket. The car finally comes to a stop. You can’t see anything through your watery eyes. Someone opens your door— Ignis, by the sound of his quiet swears.

You unbuckle yourself and climb out of the car. Your lap is warm. The feeling spreads, sliding down your legs. Ignis touches your arm, and you push it away, bending forward. More comes, retching out of you in waves of pain. Ignis rubs your back, and it’s the fucking worst. Your mouth opens again, this time to release a wet cry. You should be dried up by now, you think. Everything hurts.

You right yourself, wiping your mouth and stepping away from Ignis’ touch. You’re crying loudly. Your mouth tastes like bile, and you gag as you accidentally smear the vomit on your pants by touching your thigh. Ignis says your name, but you aren’t coherent yet. You step further away from him, squeezing your eyes shut.

Gladio grunts, and you feel a large hand take hold of one of your own, the one not covered in vomit. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

You grip his hand tightly, letting him lead you away from the car. There’s indistinct chatter around you, and it grows quiet when a short succession of thunderous raps resound in front of you.

“Open up!” Gladio is booming. His hold of your hand tightens, and he mutters, “What the hell? He knows we’re stopping by.”

You blink against the stinging wetness of your eyes, the world coming into focus slowly and blearily. You’re at the caravan. The light set into the side of the little building illuminates the door and the nearby table. When the door opens, a lanky man stands in the archway. You swallow down the acidic saliva gathered in your mouth, staring back up at Prompto as he looks between each of you with wide eyes.

As if everything hasn’t already been slamming you into this new reality, Prompto’s noticeably older appearance stills you. His goatee actually grew in. It’s a vague and trivial thought you focus on to abate the roiling in your stomach.

“Let us in, shortcake,” Gladio says, climbing the steps.

Prompto backs out of the doorway, hands lifting. “I got busy and distracted.” He meets your eyes as Gladio pulls you inside, and the worry there is apparent. You’re only graced with it for a second as you’re led through the caravan.

The bathroom is tiny. Gladio shows you inside and lets go of your hand in one movement. The door is shut before you can say anything. Left with your horrid reflection, you carefully take off Ignis’ jacket. Cleaning it and yourself up gives you something to concentrate on for a while. You can hear them speaking in the other room, but the words are indistinct.

Your stomach clenches, threatening more expulsion. You don’t think there’s anything left to dredge up, though. The stomach pains are just fake promises of relief at this point. Looking down at the chunky mess on your pants, you sigh in disgust. Most of it comes off with a rag pilfered from the cabinet beneath the sink. The stench remains strong regardless.

The Men—Astrals, are the most prevalent people in your life truly these?—are still talking when you open the door.

“She isn’t staying here.” Ignis is by the entrance, his hand resting on the door’s handle as if he’s just shut it.

“_Now _ who’s being insensitive?” Gladio is closer to you, his arms crossed. “She needs rest.”

“She can rest once we are in the Crown City.”

“She can’t handle another six hours in the car.”

Prompto stands between them, hand at the back of his neck. He looks at you apologetically, as if he’s failing by not stopping their argument.

“I don’t want to get back in the car,” you speak up. “It probably smells just as bad as I do right now.”

“So it’s final.” Gladio uncrosses his arms. “We’re crashing here for the night.”

Ignis doesn’t say anything, his grip on the door handle tightening noticeably.

“I need something to wear,” you say, pointing very helpfully at the large, wet, dirty spot on your jeans.

Gladio throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Prompto, go get something.”

He nods, passing you both to disappear into what you guess is the bedroom. The wake he leaves is quiet. Your stomach continues to clench. When you sit down on the miniscule couch built into a wall, Gladio makes his way through the space.

“I’ll go see if that spare room in the garage is still open.”

Ignis steps back to let him pass, only offering a nod in response.

The loss of Gladio’s presence deflates you, and you can’t help the sigh that escapes. You feel terrible and smell even worse. His authoritative manner had been nice. Covering your face with your hands, you breathe in deeply through your mouth. The good news is, you’re too dehydrated to cry.

Without Gladio, you don’t know who you’re meant to lean on now. This is precisely why you’d shied from getting close to people in the past. You resent the idea that you’d ever need someone. Your fingers drag down your face as you ruminate. Maybe that explains why they’re being so unhelpful in regard to your curiosity about your love life.

Maybe… there isn’t much to say on the matter.

Prompto disrupts your thoughts, coming back with a wad of clothes. You stand, already kicking off your shoes. “Thanks, Prom.”

His younger-looking-than-he-really-is face assuages your distress. He’s a friend, and he’s the only one who still feels like one. Interesting that he decided to keep living in Hammerhead after the dawn finally broke. You think about that idly, questions bubbling up in your mind, as you unbutton your pants and begin pulling them down.

“W-wait, uh,” Prompto sputters, looking away.

You feel a light laugh come out of you, a little hoarse in your throat. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me in my underwear before.”

“Alright,” Ignis snaps, catching you off guard with the hardness in his tone. “Prompto, _ leave._”

He listens, turning away from you towards the door.

“I’ll only take a minute,” you say, stepping out of the pants. The horrid smell lessens, and you feel like you can breathe again.

Prompto leaves without a response, and Ignis follows, closing the door behind him.

You kick your pants away and unfold the wadded fabric Prompto had put on the table. Track pants with an elastic waist, too long for your legs but good enough. You pull the strings tight before tying them together to keep the pants in place.

While you’re eyeing the sleeveless shirt Prompto left, there’s a knock at the door. You slip the shirt on and cross the caravan to see which of the Men has decided to bother you now. As depressed as you are about Gladio, it’s beginning to sink in that you haven’t gotten the chance to gather your bearings. You don’t know the person you had become, the person the others know, but you very much doubt she let them decide everything for her.

It’s like they think you’re mindless just because a few of your memories happened to fuck off. Whether you get them back or not, you’re tired of these Men talking about you as if you’re not present.

You open the door with a hard, “What?”

Standing on the lowest step of the stoop, Ignis doesn’t flinch. He holds up something knitted, draped over an arm. “I’m presuming Prompto has given you something unbefitting the weather. Take this.”

You hesitate. True, it’s cold. But you’d _ just _ been thinking about—

Ignis lifts a hand, pushing his glasses up. “Should you prefer something else, you need only ask. We’re here to help you recover as best we can.”

You reach for the cardigan, taking it from him if only so you wouldn’t feel that pinch of guilt. His features are considerably softer than before. He smiles a little when you have the sweater in your hands. You look over his shoulder to Prompto, standing a distance away. Were they being bossy or were they just… worried?

“Thank you.” You step back and unfold the cardigan. “You can come back in. I’m decent.”

Ignis seems to stall, unmoving on the stoop. The cardigan is soft, and you slide it over yourself with a touch of sudden excitement. Pulling it close over your chest, you bring the end of a sleeve up, and you— you smell it. You smell total bliss. You smell peace.

A scene, broken and incomplete spills into your mind. Someone holding you. You’re warm. You’re so safe. You press the sleeve against your face and inhale deeply, closing your eyes to capture more of the feeling. It escapes, dissipating as quickly as it had come. Another deep sniff brings only the faintest bits of the memory.

You try to soak in what remains, but the vestiges are all but impossible to cling to. You whine involuntarily, opening your eyes to see Ignis inside. He’s standing in front of you; he’s saying something that you don’t care to listen to.

“This sweater is mine,” you interrupt, still inhaling what you can from the sleeve. “Who gave it to me?”

Ignis stops, his mouth hanging open slightly. This close, you can tell he hasn’t shaved for several days, at least. You’d been too busy throwing up and crying to notice before.

“You made it yourself,” he says, tilting his head. “It took you months to complete. Any imperfection meant starting anew.”

You chew on your lip and look down at the perfectly knitted rows along the cuff and up the sleeve. You don’t even know how to knit. Releasing your lip, you keep from voicing the disappointment you feel at his answer. When you do open your mouth, a yawn comes out. You try to stifle it with a hand, but then you’re glancing at the digital reading of the time on Prompto’s oven. It was so late, you’re surprised you hadn’t dropped already.

“Take the bed here,” Ignis says, stepping toward the door. “We’ll work out our accommodations. You should rest in the meantime.”

You aren’t especially comfortable staying in an unfamiliar caravan by yourself. Ignis is gone before you can gather the courage to say so. You rub your eyes tiredly and look around the place. Everything is compact. The counter is littered with snack wrappers and… random bullets and ammunition cartridges.

You walk down the short hallway, past the bathroom to the bedroom. The air is dusty, just as dry as it is outside. You feel around for the light switch before stepping into the room, your hand wandering the wall until fingers land on the button.

The bed is small and unmade, and you’re not surprised. Everything about this place screams Prompto. You wish he’d come back inside to talk to you. Gladio is bitter feelings. Ignis is mildly confusing. Prompto hasn’t gotten the chance to ruin your vision of him yet.

Photos on a wall catch your attention. It’s a messy collage, taped directly to the wall in uneven groups. Most of them feature Prompto, somewhat awkwardly positioned selfies with others behind him. You round the bed to get a better look.

There’s one of him with Gladio and Ignis near a waterfront. They’re fishing, clearly taken after the Dawn. He’s blushing in another, standing next to Cindy, his smile lopsided. Some of the images have little motifs, stars and hearts and chocobos accenting the scenes by way of stickers.

You freeze when you see yourself. Prompto has an arm thrown over your shoulders, and Ignis is behind you, looking unprepared. Everything about it is candid, your surprised smile, Prompto’s closed eyes, Ignis’ open mouth as if he’d been speaking. Once spotting that one, it’s as if you’re everywhere. Most of them are casual, and you stare at each of them in hopes of dredging up memories.

Nothing sparks.

Your eyes keep wandering, searching even though you’re afraid of what you’d feel and remember. You stop on a photo of yourself in a long dress. It’s not your style, too fancy, expensive. Your hair is as long as you remember in every image, and it’s beautifully done up in this one. You’re dancing with Gladio, and you’re smiling. He’s wearing a tuxedo. It looks both ridiculous and amazing. You honestly can’t handle it.

You step back, looking down at your hands. Who is she?

The sound of someone knocking at the door brings you out of the reverie. You cross the caravan, grateful for the interruption.

It’s Ignis. Again. He lifts a small bag in his hand. “A few things for you.”

You take it without the reservation from earlier. As he nods and gives you a quiet goodnight, you step down and stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, um.” You let go, suddenly wanting to retract yourself. These Men are worried, but not for you. They care about the woman from the photographs, and you aren’t her. Not now.

Still, when Ignis turns to you with patience, you say, “I don’t want to be alone. If someone could stay, that would be…” You don’t want to ask this of him. You’d thrown up on his jacket and unintentionally caused him to argue with Gladio all day. He’s done enough. “Tell Prompto to come back. I feel bad kicking him out like this.”

Ignis frowns. “He doesn’t mind, and if he did, I wouldn’t give a damn.”

You blink at his forthright comment. “Well, I care.”

Ignis’ frown deepens. “If you don’t wish to be alone, I’ll stay with you.”

You bite your inner cheek. The air is cold, and your bare foot on the little stoop is beginning to go numb. “Why?”

He’d already done so much. You’d gotten to know him well enough, however _ long ago _ that now was, and knew his tendency to mother the people around him. It was equal parts reassuring and frustrating right now.

He touches the left cuff of his shirt, his index finger and thumb pinching a button in a faux show of adjusting. “Are we not friends, even in the memories you do retain?”

You don’t know what to say. Ignis seemed the same as ever when he’d come to pick you up from the hospital. But he is clearly different. Not the harsh sort of different that Gladio is leaning into, but not the same Ignis you remember. You don’t want his mothering. It won’t make up for your losses.

“Please, just—” You grip the bag in your hand tighter. “Let Prompto know he can stay here.”

Ignis drops his hands to his sides. His fingers curl. “Of course.”

You close the door as soon as he turns away. The caravan is quiet, and you push back the clutter on Prompto’s counter to dump out what Ignis had brought you. A toothbrush and other necessities, likely bought from the convenience store. You feel another pinch of guilt. He’s trying to be a friend, and you’d turned him away for being too unfamiliar.

Gathering the items, you take them to the bathroom. You don’t want to look at your reflection, but when you do, you can’t look away. A yawn escapes around the toothbrush while ridding your mouth of the taste of bile. You make yourself stop thinking about it. About the caring from the Men. About Gladio’s wife. About the pictures on Prompto’s wall. You face away from them when you climb into Prompto’s bed, even though it hardly matters with the light off.

You make yourself stop thinking, full stop.

—

Strong winds billow your dress. It catches at your knees, the hem flowing. No time to change. Such a rush. You’ve never been happier. You can’t believe the day has come. Even less that you’d followed through. He won’t stop smiling. You’re no better, and it hurts. Your face is going to be sore.

He tells you a secret. What does he say? It’s too vague. He’s a shape, faceless but happy. You’re yarn unraveling, unspooling in his arms. Not a secret, a confession.

You’re alone together, and you want to take the dress off. It’s so windy, it carries your laughter away just as he carries you up the hill.

You jolt awake, the musty air stinging at your eyes and nose. The images keep flashing through your mind, growing more imprecise by the second. You bury your face in your hands and squeeze your eyes shut. Your head pounds, ringing in time with the beat of your heart. You feel it like blood in your ears.

Climbing out of bed, you leave for the bathroom. You’re desperately thankful for Ignis’ foresight in buying painkillers. You toss two into your mouth, holding your head under the faucet to wash them down. Running your fingers through too-short hair, you leave the bathroom with a heavy sigh. No light breaks through the window. The clock on the oven—Prompto’s only time-telling device?— reads just past four in the morning. You consider going back to bed for a moment, but you’re too alert.

The front door opens, Prompto stepping in. He doesn’t notice you until he’s closing the door, a bundle of things in his arm. The surprise written on his face matches what you feel.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly, passing you to put the bundle on the couch. “Didn’t think you’d be up already.”

“Had a dream,” you say vaguely. “What’s that?”

He looks from you to the wad of things he’d just put down. “Oh, these are yours.”

At the top of the pile is a small paper bag with your name written on its side. You know it holds the medicines the doctor had prescribed. Underneath that is a random mess of clothing. You don’t recognize them, but they’re too feminine to be Prompto’s.

He backed away to let you take them. “Thought you might appreciate these. How you feeling?”

You roll a shrug over your shoulders, picking up the bag. “Head hurts. It always hurts.”

He leans against the oven, crossing his arms casually. “Really? I heard you were hit pretty hard.”

Another shrug as you dig through the bag curiously. “I don’t remember. But my head hasn’t stopped hurting since I woke up.”

He whistled lightly, the sound contrasting with the jangling of the pills in the bottles you pulled from the bag. “You had everybody scared.”

You drop the bottles back into the bag and look up at him. “Everyone?”

He nods, his easy expression growing slightly incredulous. “Yeah. We were all worried you wouldn’t wake up.”

You sit down on the couch next to the pile of things. “Even Talcott?”

Prompto becomes further confused, a blonde brow arching. His hair is flatter than you’re used to, his eyes holding darker circles. “Uh, yeah? He and Iggy went to Lestallum as soon as Gladio called.”

You’re only hedging because of the dream. It was a fragment of a memory, and if anyone is going to be honest with you, it’s Prompto. “Am I close with Talcott?” You think of the flowers that are probably wilting in the back of the car.

Prompto’s confusion must be reaching its peak. “I guess? You and Iggy are both close to him. He’s always there. I—” He lifts a hand, rubbing his neck. “What’s with the questions?”

“I don’t remember anything,” you say, frowning at him.

“I-I know.” He pushes off from the oven. “Iggy told me what’s going on. I guess I’m still trying to get my head around it.”

“You keep bringing up Ignis.” You hadn’t missed what Prompto was saying. It was just making your head throb to think too hard about it. “We’re close?”

Prompto doesn’t seem willing to respond at first, his eyes flitting away from yours as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “You guys work together. He’s like your— your best friend.” He laughs a little, meeting your gaze again. “You guys never _ said _ so, but that’s what I’d call it.”

You tilt your head, considering this. “We still work together? Is he my boss? What do we do?”

Prompto raises his hands. “Y’know, why don’t you ask him in the morning.” He looks uncomfortable, and you can’t imagine why. The questions seem fair to you, but you let it go. You still aren’t in a huge rush to discover yourself.

You tell Prompto he can have his bed back, and once you’re left alone, you bring your knees up to curl yourself comfortably on the little couch. Pulling the sweater tight around your torso, you tell yourself to go easier on Ignis and his mothering. It makes sense now. Best friend or boss, he’s apparently the one with the answers.

You watch dawn come while wondering if Future You was close enough to being best friends with Ignis to call him _ Iggy. _ You aren’t going to test that—he still feels like your boss—but the thought amuses you. You also replay the bits of that soft, windy memory-dream in your mind. You, guiltily, try to imagine what Talcott might look like, and if it had been his smooth, hard jaw you’d kissed while being carried uphill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, reader. How do you think she's going to take meeting Talcott, who's likely half her age?  
  
Thanks for reading! I've appreciated all the kudos and comments this has gotten! It has really brightened and motivated me <3


	3. All I know is you hardly know me, but you still owe me, and all the rest.

**M.E. 763**

Fingertips danced over the skin of your nape, light touches that made you squirm. Your shoulders hitched, and you ducked your head with an involuntary laugh that ended in a whine.

“Gladio, _ stop._” You drew it out, slamming your pen down on your desk. Your free hand came to your neck, protecting it from his teasing. “I have to finish this before tomorrow.”

He looked entirely unapologetic, leaning on your desk with a smirk. “Says who? Iggy’s not even in town.”

That didn’t matter. You set your own deadlines to keep on track. Just in case Ignis needed something on short notice. You were becoming somewhat paranoid of that happening because you hadn’t heard from the man in nearly a month. Between training with Gladio and sleeping off the subsequent exhaustion—your boyfriend was the Shield of the King for good reason—you hadn’t spent much of the radio silence actually working.

“Aren’t you tired of me?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. You weren’t the least bit tired of him, but you’d barely left one another’s side during your boss’ absence. You were pretty sure there were hunters out there somewhere struggling because the big guy had chosen to spend his time with you instead.

He flicked your ear, and you moved your hand to protect it next. It prompted a chuckle out of him. “Get tired of you? That’s as likely as Darcy ever warming up to me.”

You smiled, returning your attention to the Old Lucian that needed to be translated from the Tomb of the Just. You were so behind. Progress was beginning to feel like a foreign concept. The push to break you out of your train-hard-every-day state had been a dictionary for antiquated Old Lucian terms. Ignis had sent it with a note—_I trust this will aid you as you aid me_—that you hadn’t been able to get off your mind for the past day. The book lay open in front of you now, the withered and weak pages a slight worry as you flipped through it with your bulky, bored boyfriend in your face.

“Should’ve been more careful,” you said, already dividing your attention. “She’ll never forgive you for stepping on her tail.”

Gladio pushed off from your desk. “I’ll bring her a fish next time I come.”

“You’d have to leave first.”

Another chuckle, this one shorter, fell out of him. “Actually, about that…”

You didn’t look up until the silence stretched for too long. He’d crossed his arms, but the smile on his face remained easy. The weird contrast of it had you placing your pen down again, gently this time.

“What?”

“I’m going with Aranea and a few others on the next big trip outta Lucis.”

You sat up straighter. “Okay. When?” Last you knew, Aranea was busy doing _ whatever _ with Ignis. If he was out of town, so was she.

“A couple weeks.” He shrugged, but his smile was waning. Suddenly his closeness made sense.  
“For how long?” You asked but already knew the answer.

“Who knows? Hard to predict what we’ll face out there.”

Looking down, you carefully placed a piece of paper between the open pages of the dictionary before closing it. You didn’t like how unsettled you felt. It was so immediate and uncomfortable. His leaving shouldn’t bother you. Especially not after so many weeks of intimacy. You _ should’ve _ been sick of his face.

Pushing back your chair, you stood with trepidation. It was terrible, the feeling. You fought it with a smile. “I suppose I have to enjoy you while I can, then.”

Gladio’s arms loosened and fell to his sides. “Guess so.”

Rounding your desk, you stopped in front of him. His chest was warm under your palm when you placed your hand there for balance. On tiptoes, you lifted, raising a hand to touch his jaw. He leaned down to meet you, and you smirked, flicking his nose as hard as he’d done to your ear earlier.

Mouth opening, he blinked, his arms wrapping around your middle just as you were about to bolt. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you yelled at the soft sensation of his facial hair.

The uneasiness remained, even as he laughed with you.

—

You shouldn’t have been surprised. Truly.

Hunter HQ was crowded with bodies, the hunters in from various parts of Lucis. You were passing through, merely a tourist, and stood near the loading zone with your simple bag. Waiting.

Ignis was across the lot, talking to Dave. He kept nodding. _ Why yes, Dave. I agree. Indeed. Quite. Indubitably. _

“Four eyes,” Aranea called from next to you. “How long does it take to get your chocobos in a row, huh?”

Ignis faced your direction with a small frown, not responding.

You should’ve known she would be joining you on this trip. When Ignis had finally met with you to go over the travel plans, she’d shown up at the bar halfway through the meeting with a smile stretched wide. Like Ignis, she didn’t tend to drink, so there you were, sipping on a beer until it grew too warm, missing Gladio as she and Ignis talked over you.

And now, here you were, tense as you stood next to her in wait for your boss.

Ignis nodded one last time to Dave, then walked your way. You hitched the straps of your pack more comfortably, feeling slightly antsy. You couldn’t wait to test your newfound physical prowess, though Gladio was adamant that it took more than a month for a person to learn anything beyond basic defensive and evasive maneuvers.

“Just because you can’t see the time doesn’t mean ours isn’t important,” Aranea said, holding a hand at her waist.

Your eyes widened, surprised at being grouped in with her statement. You looked from her to Ignis, ready to say you didn’t share such a rude thought. 

Ignis cut you off first. “Ah, yes.” He had a small smile on his face. “I’d say I look forward to the next several days with you, commodore. Alas.”

Aranea snorted, looking away from him. Her braided hair fell over her exposed shoulder. So carefree for someone so high ranking.

You stood there, silent between them. Right. It was best not to say anything until you got to where you were going. They were old friends; you were just Ignis’ tag-along guide.

Aranea turned to you, clearly not a mind reader. “You driving?”

You opened your mouth, and again, Ignis cut you off. “I don’t see why not.”

You hesitated, chewed on your lip at so much congeniality between them while Aranea chuckled.

“I was talking to your assistant here,” she said, meeting your eyes.

As if stricken, all humor drained from his face, his mouth becoming a flat line. “Apologies.” His head turned your way. “I wasn’t aware of your presence.”

You felt a pinch at that, a twinge of some feeling you didn’t recognize.

“That’s all right,” you were quick to assuage. “You were busy so I just waited here.”

Aranea nodded. “We almost left without you.”

Again, you were confused by the wording, at the way she seemed keen to bring you into her decisions, however jokingly.

You didn’t appreciate it.

Ignis tilted his head. “I’m certain you’d both fare well without me. She has valuable knowledge of the Mrylwood.”

You perked up at the compliment, though you still found them, as well as all of Ignis’ positive opinions of you, a little difficult to digest. You’d spent an entire year of your youth in the Mrylwood, so you did have a bit of knowledge to spare in this particular situation.

“She led us through much of that area years ago,” Ignis continued, turning to you. “Let it be known I requested her assistance with this for that reason alone.”

Oh… He was complimenting Aranea, not you.

Right, yeah. Okay.

That uncomfortable feeling settled deeper in your chest, and you frowned down at your feet. Small. That was the feeling. That’s what you were.

You chose to drive so you wouldn’t have to sit between them, lest they decide to have another conversation around you but not with you.

—

When you’d stayed in the Mrylwood, early in your teenage years, there had been a farm in the jungle. Very few had known about the place, but the family that propagated the land had liked your parents. It had been a coffee farm, rich in both scents and experiences, hidden by the depth of the forest.

The area was dangerous, so you were only ever allowed to leave the safety of the farm with the farmer’s eldest son. You would help, had loved to help, fingers aching from picking cherries, hours—sometimes days—of waiting until they dried in the sun. While your parents sought information on the ruins, you went to Lestallum with the farmer’s son to sell bags of coffee beans to merchants. You’d watched, mostly. He’d been very good at talking.

_ I’m goin’ to leave someday, _ he’d said. _ I’m goin’ to be a hunter. _

You’d been enraptured, legs drawn up in the cab of his family’s truck. He’d tell you not to hang out of the passenger window, and you’d keep doing it just so he’d reach across the space to pull you back in. He’d seemed so mature, a proud seventeen to your newly teenaged eyes. So many late nights spent with longing. He’d liked your poetry, and when you’d admitted that you, too, didn’t want to follow in your parents’ footsteps, he’d kissed you. He’d inspired you more than he could’ve realized.

You wondered now, as you walked behind your companions, if he even still lived. You didn’t think so, if only because you’d never once ran into him in Lestallum. The city was large, but if he’d become a hunter like he’d wanted, he would’ve found his way into Duke’s at some point already.

The coffee farm hadn’t survived the darkness, surely, buried away as it had been. You could remember the smell, how much you’d loved it but hated the bitter taste. Better than Ebony. Partly for its freshness, entirely for its exclusivity. You smiled to yourself, embracing the aloneness you felt, steps behind the others.

Crossing through a thicket, you held your arm out to protect yourself from the brittle, leafless branches. They scratched and pulled at your clothes. You’d bought a new lantern, attached to your coat. It illuminated Ignis and the area several steps ahead of him, brighter than your last. Already cracked, it tore a small line through Ignis’ back that your eyes kept tracing. You’d tripped right out of the truck, and Aranea had come to the rescue with a hand on your arm that was warmer and softer than yours.

With everything you’d heard about her, you didn’t know how that was even possible.

Your hands gripped the straps of your bag tight, pulling it taut at your shoulders. You wanted to like her. Iris did. Ignis did. Prompto _ really _ did. You weren’t really sure where the dislike was coming from, and though you tried not to indulge the sour feelings, every interaction only seemed to bother you more.

“Rocks ahead,” Aranea called back, dispelling your thoughts. She’d stopped to look back and came into view when your lamplight hit her. “You know what kind?”

You couldn’t see any rocks, and didn’t answer until stopping by her side. Then you noticed the walls, solid and craggy, that towered high right ahead. Geology wasn’t an interest of yours, but you’d begun to form a pattern while out with Ignis. He could ask a question about anything in your surroundings, and you were determined to be ready.

Or to have a highly convincing guess.

The Mrylwood was a rainforest, so you wracked your brain for any information relating to that while staring at the cliffside. After a bit of silence, you went with, “Granite, mostly. It’s sedimentary, so… it’s hard to know how much of what makes up these cliffs.”

Aranea startled you with a pat on your shoulder. It was harder than you felt necessary and knocked your forward a step. She smiled at you through her helmet, and looked to Ignis. “Gladio was right. She’s a walking encyclopedia.”

Your hands were now perilously tight on the straps of your pack. “He said that?” You looked between Aranea and Ignis, attempting to absorb the comment. It didn’t paint you in the most flattering light. That was Gladio’s opinion of you?

“Cliffs, you said.” Ignis hummed in thought. “Is our path obstructed?”

You hadn’t exactly been following a path in the first place, and looked to Aranea for an explanation. _ She _ was the expert here after all, unlike your base knowledge as the Human Encyclopedia.

She walked along the wall in one direction, keeping right, the sharp tips of her gloves scraping against the rocky face. “We’ll find a way through. Let’s keep going.”

You followed her quietly. Touching the wall, you were met with wet earth and rock. You jerked your hand back and rubbed it on the thigh of your jeans. Better to keep from touching random things in this darkness.

The forest was thick despite being dead. Trees were everywhere, barren and difficult to navigate when growing so close to the cliffside. You rounded the spindly, scratchy limbs of one more slowly than the others and felt Ignis bump into your back.

“Sorry,” he murmured, and you felt a hand come to your upper arm. It slid down and caught at your elbow. “The flora doesn’t appear to want our intrusion.”

“It never does.” You wanted to laugh. Because of course it didn’t, not even before the long night had fallen. You couldn’t laugh, though. With your struggle to understand your discomfort regarding Aranea and the consequential distrust, this was becoming as frightening as your first trip out with Ignis had been.

At some point between finding the cliff and Ignis’ quiet apology, the forest had become eerily silent. The only sound was the crunch of your party’s feet, and Aranea’s were growing more distant by the second. You picked up your pace, feeling Ignis’ hand fall from your arm. He remained on your heel, a presence you appreciated more than you would ever voice. You kept parallel with the cliffside and walked progressively faster.

Aranea stopped, her lamplight shining in wide arches over the dead branches. She yelled that she was sure a haven was close, that she was going to push onward and meet you there. At least… that’s what you thought. She was so distant, you hoped you’d heard wrong. You weren’t sure how she’d gotten so far ahead and didn’t really want to lose the other person in your party with actual fighting skills, however uncertain you were about her.

“Understood, see you there!” Ignis called over your shoulder once he must’ve realized you weren’t going to answer.

Like before, you felt his hand touch your arm, this time slipping down to take hold of your wrist. About to say it wasn’t necessary—you knew how to walk even while afraid—your next step was halted by something on the ground. Looking down, you found your boot caught on a gnarly root protruding from the dried earth. You pulled hard on your foot, falling back into Ignis when it came free.

“S-sorry.” You pushed away from him and used your free hand to adjust the straps of your bag.

His hand slipped further, covering yours. Warm, soft leather over your anxious fingers. You faced him to assure him _ again _ that you were capable of walking on your own, but stopped short at the sight of the small curve of his mouth. It was a mystery how he could be smiling right now of all times. Amused at your clumsiness, surely.

“I’m ashamed to admit I’m struggling a bit through the density of this place.” He looked down, the smile fading into a flat line. “Be my eyes, will you?”

Oh. You felt a small wave of shame and squeezed his hand in yours. “Of course.”

You led him through more trees and brush, careful to warn him of any branches that may attempt to whip him if you didn’t hold them back until he’d passed through. The cliff remained at your side, a point to keep you grounded. If it wasn’t the right direction to get to the tomb, you knew, at the very least, it was the same one Aranea had taken.

“There used to be a coffee farm here, in the jungle,” you spoke up. The silence was getting to you, and there was nothing left to describe about your surroundings. Rocks. Dried ground. Leafless trees. You _ had _ to say something else. “I think you would’ve liked it. Fresh coffee every day.”

You couldn’t see his face, but imagined the arch of his brow. “Is that so? I’ve never heard of any operation of that sort in these parts.”

“It was small. Just a family tending to the territory.”

He hummed, then, and it was the thoughtful kind. Not the one he did when Prompto tested his patience. And it wasn’t like the approving sound he made when you were lucky enough to find possible cooking ingredients while traveling. It was his _ tell me more _ hum. The one you wanted to think was reserved for you.

Your fear of the overwhelming forest and the darkness it bathed in was assuaged while he listened to you tell him about your year spent in the Mrylwood. Whether intentional or not, Ignis was a comfort on your walk through the pitch black.

For a time, you weren’t a walking encyclopedia, and you weren’t alone.

—

“The Tomb of the Rogue has a few more… embellishments than the others we’ve seen so far,” you said into your recorder. You’d gotten it while Ignis had been out of town, and you’re geeking a bit at being able to finally put it to use.

“Oh, really?” Aranea spoke up from across the chamber.

You ignored her, your eyes following the wide swaths of muted color on the stone walls. “Gold, primarily. A mark of this ruler’s time or a personal choice?”

Aranea cleared her throat, standing next to Ignis by the sarcophagus. “So this is what she does?”

You frowned and paused the recording to defend yourself. It was embarrassing enough having someone new and unfamiliar watch you work, but her comments throughout were anything but helpful. Ignis beat you to it.

“Aranea, allow her to work.” He touched the inscriptions etched on the foot of the coffer, as he always did, in what you always took as an attempt to memorize the words. It wasn’t braille, if that was something he even _ knew _ how to read, so you couldn’t have been sure of just what he was doing. You never could when it came to Ignis. He tilted his head your way. “She needs peace.”

You weren’t sure how to thank him aside from continuing on. Aranea, for her part, remained quiet and only spoke to awe, you suspected with sarcasm, at your increasingly elaborate descriptions. It made you blush all the same.

“The Rogue had been a woman,” you said, standing next to the coffer in your final string of data collection. “But the sarcophagus face remains the same as the others.”

“A bearded, nondescript man,” Aranea added, facing you from the other side of it. “Figures. Cover up a perfectly strong woman with the facade of a man.”

You nod your head, surprised by her sudden words. “Yes. The Rogue was secretive, though. Maybe she wanted it this way.”

“A real shame.”

You almost smiled. Social commentary wasn’t anything Ignis would’ve added, not even in the slightest way as Aranea just had. You couldn’t help agreeing with her. Among the Kings, there were at least two Queens you knew about, and neither had resting places indicative of their gender.

You described the rest of the sarcophagus in as much detail as you could and ended the recording there, looking at the stone face. It mustn’t have mattered. A ruler was a ruler. A faceless point of power, admiration, and blame, regardless of gender. Someone had to take responsibility for the kingdom with each generation, and you didn’t envy any of them.

“Back to camp?” You were asking Ignis, but Aranea was already on her way toward the exit.

She led the way out, right into the small glen you’d passed through after hours of following the cliffside and making a pit stop at the haven Aranea had eventually located. The air remained disturbingly silent, but you wouldn’t let it unnerve you. Even if it made less sense now because the glen had far less plant life to hinder your movements or obstruct the sound of the wind.

You stopped near a large tree to lick your finger and hold it in the air. Really, though? No wind at all? You looked back at Ignis to bring up how strange that was, but your world, in an instant, went blank.

—

Hazy figures shifted about in your vision. They made sounds, but it was muddled and muted. You blinked repeatedly and grimaced against a sharp pain at the side of your head. The shapes moved faster in front of you, back and forth, growing larger.

“She’s waking.”

It was the first string of noise that made sense, said in a voice you knew but couldn’t place. You grunted and lifted a hand to touch your head. Something stopped you with a light grip on your wrist.

“Careful, now.”

You opened your eyes fully at how close the voice was. Above you, his hand reaching down to keep yours at bay, Ignis stood in a lean. You stared blankly, wondering what happened. Weren’t you just in the Rogue’s tomb?

“Something happened,” you said, pulling your wrist away. You dropped it to your side and used it as leverage to slowly sit up.

“You were knocked unconscious,” Aranea butted in. Why did she have to always butt in? She stood next to Ignis, with her arms crossed, being all… all serious. You glared at her, and it seemed to make your head hurt more.

You reached up to touch the painful spot again, and again, Ignis stopped you, his hand gentle but firm.

“How do you know what I’m doing?” you whined, jerking your hand from his. “You can’t even _ see _ me.”

Rather than give an answer, Ignis stood upright and explained, “A treant caught us by surprise. I think we woke it when passing through the valley.”

Well, that made sense. A little. You moved your attention to other things around you, unimpressed by your companions. The ground was alight with soft blue light. So you’d made it back to the haven. Nice, nice. A campfire was fully ablaze nearby, warming one side of you. Your pack was open near a pitched tent, the contents spilling out onto the rocky floor.

You pointed at it. “Hey, that’s mine. Why’s it over there?” You tried to get up, but the ground was too wobbly. How odd. Falling back on your ass, you sat in your confusion and looked up to Ignis and Aranea for more answers.

Aranea gave him a quick jab with her elbow. “I think she’s concussed.”

You glared at her again, fighting the ache in your head. “Hey, I’m right _ here. _ You two can’t just keep talking like I’m invisible. It’s fucking rude. And if you—”

A wave of queasiness came over you, lurching in your stomach. You closed your eyes and slowly laid back. “If you really gotta flirt, do it _ away _ from me. You’re both gross.”

Something soft had been put on the ground at your head, and you settled back into it, feeling a little less sick but much sleepier suddenly. “Be professional.”

As soon as you were comfortable, hands were on your upper arms, urging you to sit up. You fought the touch, but the hands were much firmer this time, gripping tightly.

“Up we go,” Ignis said, sounding too close once again.

You opened your eyes to grimace at him. “Stop that.”

He ignored you, kneeling at your side to hold you in place. “You need to stay lucid for the time being. If you’ve a concussion, we need to determine how bad it is.”

This was ridiculous. You glared between them while Aranea checked you over. Because she was evil, she shined a torch into your eyes and made you look around. And because Ignis had rendered you helpless, you had to listen.

You traced the features of his face while Aranea inspected your head injury. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and one of his eyes was open, pointed at your face. You wondered what color his eyes had been before; clearly he hadn’t always been blind. Parts of their conversations during travel had tipped you off that he knew what Aranea looked like.

She changed your bandage out for a new one. A concerning fact. How long had you been asleep to need a change? They couldn’t keep you up like this forever. The nausea kept coming and going, but the sleepiness only grew heavier. Each painful touch did keep you alert, though. You had to give Aranea credit for that.

On the third hiss out of you, Ignis said, “Have a care, Aranea. We need her intact.”

“Intact,” you repeated after him. “Noun. It means… All in one piece.”

“Yes.” He almost smiled. “One piece.”

“Like the anime.”

He did smile then, although it was small. “Can’t say I’m familiar.”

You smiled back, even with the sting of Aranea’s touch. “It’s pretty good. We should watch it sometime.”

“Perhaps.”

Your smile faltered, your eyes pouring over his scarred face in realization. There you were again, putting your foot in your mouth when it came to his sight. Or lack thereof. “Y’know, it’s not _ that _ amazing. And it never got an ending. Don’t even worry about it.”

Another smile ghosted over Ignis’ face, and before you could ask what was so amusing, Aranea caught your attention with a question.

“Can you spell your name for me?”

You tried to look at her, but she held your head in place. “Yes.”

She sighed, slowly wrapping something around the crown of your head. “Then do it.”

Begrudgingly, you spelled out your name, first and last. Then you began to count your fingers to prove you were a master of other elementary grade skills. “My favorite color is green, and I need a nap after lunch.”

Ignis shook his head. “No naps, I’m afraid.”

Aranea rounded you to kneel on your other side. Her hands cupped your face, tilting your head back so she could look into your eyes. “She’s concussed, but cognizant enough. She could rest, but we should give it a couple of hours first.”

“Cognizant,” you said, mind doing circles. “A noun that means—”

Letting you go, Aranea laughed and stood up. “Okay, cupcake, that’s enough. We don’t need random dictionary entries right now.”

You slumped as Ignis finally let go of your arms. Your eyes followed him up when he came to stand. “You mean you don’t need me. Because Aranea’s here.”

Ignis’ eyebrows met in a furrow. Aranea tilted her head, staring down at you. Both of them were frowning. As if they didn’t know. You looked at your hands, wishing your head didn’t hurt or that your eyelids were so heavy.

“Gladio trained me, and it didn’t matter.” You picked at dirt under one of your fingernails, then gave up. All of them were filthy. Tilting your head back, you looked between them again. “Ignis, if I can’t guide you or defend myself, there’s no point. I shouldn’t be here.”

Aranea rolled her eyes, saying nothing. She walked to the campfire and sat. One of her hands came to a bottle of beer, half full, sitting on the ground next to her. When she lifted it to her mouth, no chance of any response out of her, you shifted your attention to Ignis.

He still frowned, still stood there, looking down at you and, presumably, seeing nothing. You waved at him, your suspicion back in full at how attentive he’d been since you’d woken up here. He didn’t react. You dropped your hand to your lap and sighed. Okay, he was good; you had to give him that.

Feeling another heavy wave of sleepiness hit, you began to lay back again. Aranea had said no naps yet, but you were pretty sure she wasn’t a doctor. As if on cue, Ignis stopped you with a hand on your shoulder. You let out a long sigh. “Stop.”

“I know you’re uncomfortable,” he said, coming to a full sit on the ground next to you. “It’s imperative you stay awake.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You shrugged off his hand but made no more moves to sleep. They obviously weren’t going to let you. Closer to you now, his face was easier to examine. His cloudy, pale eye seemed to go right through you.

“What color?” You raised a hand and touched his face. Your fingertips brushed his scarred cheek, and he started, tilting his head away. You persisted, leaning forward to touch him again until he grabbed your wrist and drew it away. “What color were your eyes before?”

Ignis’ jaw slackened, his eye flitting about before settling downward, to where his hand loosely held your wrist at bay. “They were green.”

“Nice.” You’d had a feeling. Pulling your hand out of his grip, you rested your elbows on your knees. “Try to guess mine.”

He huffed lightly. A near laugh? It made you smile, which only grew when he made his guess.

“Brown?”

“Statistically, that’d be likely, right?” You reached out and touched him again, this time your index finger touching his chest. He didn’t stop you, and you immediately lost interest. Withdrawing your hand, you laughed. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Am I?”

“You’ll never know.”

One corner of his mouth curled with the smallest of smiles. You fought the urge to lay down again, keeping yourself grounded with that look on him. The conversation continued, drifting into other places, especially when Aranea chose to join you. It was enough, they were enough, to keep you together until it was okay to let sleep come.

—

The supply runners that traveled between hunter headquarters and Lestallum used to be saleswomen who sold goods out of their trucks at various stops throughout Lucis. All of them knew one another and kept to their respective places when slinging their merchandise. You’d likened them to a cult for how they dressed and behaved similarly. All of their trucks were the same make and model because, at the end of the day, every one of them had been employed by the same agricultural company to push their produce and related goods.

Each one had an earthy, flowery name composed of only four letters. Rose, Fern, Lily, and Thea. Iris sometimes joked that she was a long lost sister of the group, born in the crown city but destined to sell Leiden potatoes out of the bed of a rusty, red automobile in a dusty desert pitstop.

The one talking to Ignis now was Sage.

You stood with Aranea next to a barrel of fire, your hands up to keep warm. It wasn’t truly an apocalypse without fires burning in dirty barrels throughout trash-covered safe havens, according to Aranea. You hated that it’d made you laugh. She was growing on you. Maybe a little.

“Aren’t you jealous?” You nodded toward Ignis and Sage.

The supply runner was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her thumbs hooked into her belt at her lower back. It was a move you’d seen in the bar a million times. If someone had breasts to flaunt and a target of romantic interest, all that needed to be done was have that target _ notice. _ Arms back, chest out. Simple. If Ignis were anyone else, her intent would’ve been clearer, but he couldn’t exactly _ see _ how hard she was trying.

Ignis had been speaking with Sage at length, and every time you looked that way, she’d gotten closer. Her chest was going to brush his soon. You couldn’t wait to see the look of realization on his face. He was difficult to read, but you thought this would be a special case. It couldn’t have been often that people flirted with him.

Aranea snorted, giving the pair an incredulous glance. “She doesn’t stand a chance.”

It was subjective, but you agreed. Aranea was prettier and stronger.

“Ignis doesn’t date.” She crossed her arms and sent you a smirk. “Fifty gil says he doesn’t even let her down softly.”

You didn’t understand. “Aren’t you… together?”

Her smirk broadened. “No. He said I’m too emotionally unavailable.”

“So, wait. He rejected you?”

She shrugged. “No. That’s just something he’s pointed out.”

This made even less sense. “Okay, so. Aranea, wait. He didn’t reject you because you never asked him? Or he didn’t because—” You shook your head. “Because you _ did _ ask him, and he said yes? Wait. Wait, did he tell you that because he doesn’t _ date, _ but casual stuff is fine?”

She laughed at you then. She actually laughed, her arms loosening to fall to her sides. “Guess you’ll never know.”

You gaped at her. “That’s not fair.”

“He’s your boss,” she said, lifting her hands near the fire again. “Let him have his secrets. Be professional, remember?”

You bit your lower lip to keep from pouting. It was embarrassing to be reminded of your behavior while concussed, but she was right. It wasn’t any of your business. You’d gotten too used to knowing people’s business as a bartender.

Another glance toward Ignis and Sage, you were caught off guard by seeing him approaching you.

“Your assistant’s here,” Aranea spoke up first. “Just so you don’t lose track of her again.”

You sent Aranea a flat look, but schooled it when Ignis spoke.

“She’s who I came over to speak with.” He faced you, his eyebrows arching over his shades. “I know you’re waiting for Gladio, but you should return to Lestallum to allow yourself to fully heal.”

You didn’t like that idea at all. “I’m fine. He should be here soon, anyway.”

Ignis held himself there, facing down toward you. Adjusting his glasses, he seemed to have made up his mind. “I just spoke with the last supply runner who’s to leave for the evening. She has room for us both. If you don’t come now, you’ll be stranded here in headquarters until morning.”

Stranded wasn’t the word you’d use for being stuck here, but the place was pretty inhospitable for anyone not used to long bouts of darkness. Long as in weeks. As in months. You wanted to see Gladio. This was your last chance to say goodbye before he left with Aranea and a band of others. If you didn’t see him now, you wouldn’t get another opportunity for months.

“I’ll take that chance,” you said, although you felt uncertain. Your head continued to ache, and what would you do once Gladio left? According to Aranea, they would be leaving soon after he arrived from Lestallum. You’d get to say farewell, and then… what? Stand by this flaming barrel for hours more until another supply runner was scheduled to go out?

Ignis frowned, his arms crossing over his broad chest. “I have to insist. I’m not above withholding your payment.”

You blinked, eyebrows meeting. “That’s—” You looked to Aranea, who seemed to find nothing but amusement at the situation. “That’s unethical, right?”

All she gave you was a shrug.

You faced Ignis with a sigh. “Okay. I’ll go and call him later.”

Ignis eased. “Good. We’re leaving now.”

He walked off, leaving you standing there by the fire. You bent to pick up your pack from the ground and waved to Aranea in your scramble to catch up.

“So.” You said, hoping the question wasn’t rude. His behavior was more blunt than usual, sure, but this trip had been particularly… strange. A bit of rudeness was bound to go both ways. “Why are you forcing me to go home? Gladio’s going on that long trip…”

“I’m sure he wishes to see you before he leaves,” Ignis said, navigating headquarter grounds better than anyone in his condition had the right to. “But I’m not the sort of person who leaves his best mate’s girlfriend behind when she’s been gravely injured.”

“I’m not _ gravely _ injured,” you defended, picking up your pace to keep at his side. “I just have a headache.”

He hummed noncommittally.

Not to be dismissed, you drew in a deep breath and gripped the straps of your bag tightly. “You’re not taking me to the hospital, are you?”

“There isn’t much they can do for you, so no.” He led you to a truck with stacks of crates filling its bed. Sage waved at you from the back, where she was bent to hook the last corner of a tarp over the boxes.

You waved back vaguely. “Ignis, I can work. I’ll go over all of our data, translate what we need, and we can be back out by next week.”

He opened the passenger door of the truck and waited for you to get in first. “That’s optimistic.”

You took off your bag and climbed in. “It’s reasonable.”

He sidled in next to you, and the door screeched as he slammed it shut. You weren’t sure if he was pursing his lips at the noise or your conversation.

“We’ll take the next several weeks as a chance to recoup and organize everything we’ve discovered thus far.” The words were blunt, but he spoke calmly. “That’s final.”

You settled in your seat and gave up on the argument. He was your employer, and if he thought you needed a break— fine. With more time and without Gladio as a distraction, you may actually have the chance to complete all the translations with greater accuracy.

—

It was late when you stepped into your home. Darcy greeted you with loud mews, complaining about your absence. You threw your bag down to scoop her up. “You baby. Did you miss me that much?”

She squirmed until you had to let her go. Such a difficult love. So tsundere. You went to her food bowl to refill it and give her more water before doing anything else. It didn’t coerce her out of hiding, but you weren’t worried.

Carrying your bag to your living room, you dropped it onto your coffee table after fishing out the envelope of money Ignis had given you before you’d parted ways. Before Sage had caught him by the arm and asked him if he’d have a drink with her. You grinned to yourself, wondering if he’d said yes.

_ Why yes, Sage. In fact, let’s skip the drink and go right back to my place. Which is somewhere in town. Probably. I’m aware of how sexy my mysterious aura is, and I use it to get what I want. _

Could it have been like that? Aranea had vexed you on it thoroughly, and you found the image of him accepting any romantic advance difficult to conjure.

Forgetting that nonsense, you went upstairs with your money. The envelope opened to a small but substantial stack of gil, beautiful gil, that you pulled out to count. It joined your accumulated stash hidden away in the library. You felt that sweet sense of security and crossed the hallway to your bedroom.

Calling Gladio and turning on the speaker, you left your phone on your bed and began to undress. If he wasn’t driving, he was likely asleep while they traveled. Worst case, you’d leave him a message that he could respond to later.

A crackly click caught you by surprise after two rings. “Hey, we’re on the road.”

You smiled, stepping out of your pants and picking up your phone. “I know. How are you?”

“I’m gonna be busy. I’ll call you when I can.”

Your good mood deflated, and he ended the call before you could say goodbye. Right. Cool. Of course. He was busy. You knew that.

Showering with your injured head was a hassle, but you spent much of it wishing the silence around you hadn’t suddenly become deafening.

—

You were a genius. At least, you hoped Ignis would think so once you told him about the final compendium you were working on. Organizing hundreds of pages of information, listening to hours of your voice—why did it sound so nasally in every recording?—and crossing the points of information both with each other and with well familiar theories was all you did for weeks. You hoped it paid off.

After passing what Ignis seemed to consider your recovery period, a couple of days each week were dedicated to meeting him in an empty backlot on the edge of town. So you could fight. That was the only way you could describe it because it sure as hell wasn’t training. Gladio had taught you how to counter the attacks he sent your way; Ignis just… attacked.

In Gladio’s absence, Ignis said he wanted to keep your training going. You wondered when that would be; all he’d done so far was give you sore muscles, a few cuts, and be very unapologetic when you gave him feedback on his aggressive teaching style.

You made rounds of your bedroom for comfortable clothes, wishing you weren’t obligated to go. There had to be a hunter or someone out there willing to train you with a gentler approach. In the midst of pulling on one of the last pairs of pants that didn’t have the inner thighs blasted out of them, you heard a knock from downstairs.

Darcy ran into your room, climbing on to your bed to hide between your rumpled blankets and sheets. No one was meant to visit, and you felt much like hiding yourself. Descending the stairs, you checked yourself over in the mirror and peered through the peephole before taking hold of the door handle.

Ignis, unassuming and straight-backed, stood on your stoop.

You opened the door slowly and said nothing. What would he do if you just—

“Good afternoon,” he said, tilting his head down as if looking right at you. It was as unsettling as ever. “No training today.”

The relief you felt was so palpable, you let out a heavy, obvious sigh. You opened the door wider and stepped back. “Hey, Ignis. Come in.” It took all of your self control not to dance in the foyer while he removed his shoes. Such good news he’d brought. “Why no training?”

“It’s nearing time we sought another location.” He took off his jacket, which was a new thing. A sign of how comfortable he was growing, you thought. “The body requires rest before another outing, so I thought we could go over our findings for the next week.”

Amazing, yes. You were on the same page. “I’ll go get the stuff. Want anything to drink?”

He began to roll up his sleeves, unbuttoning a cuff. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to make tea.”

You nodded, then cleared your throat on your way to the staircase. “Yeah, sure. Make some for me, too. It’s in the same cabinet as last time.”

He hadn’t brought himself an Ebony during any of his visits for… three weeks now? You suspected he’d run out, but didn’t want to bring it up. The subject could’ve been touchy, and if he was deprived of caffeine, you didn’t want to deal with the brunt of it just by asking the wrong question.

The compendium, still a work in progress, was made up of an accordion file and several smaller folders spilling out messily written transcripts and speculations derived both from your personal thoughts and the discussions you’d had with Ignis throughout this so-called rest period. You still didn’t know what he was looking for, and you were long past an explanation.

As much as you didn’t want to follow in the footsteps of your parents, you were compelled by the prospect of fulfilling their dreams. It was exactly what the younger you would’ve hated. The you who’d left Insomnia to be a poet for a summer— she would’ve loathed what you were doing. Now, all you could do was lament the fact that, no matter how much you discovered with Ignis, it was never going to bring you closer to your parents.

They may have hated each other by the end, but they’d always wanted the same things. They’d fought, viciously, with one another to be the first. First to obtain a relic. First to uncover whatever truths were hidden beneath all of their research. Funny how they’d both been wrong. You were going to finish it for them.

Then, you’d let it all go.

You mulled on these thoughts, walking downstairs in a heavy shroud of silence. The files went onto your coffee table, and you rounded the room to the kitchen. Ignis was leaned against a counter, one of his hands over Darcy, who lay back on the countertop, swatting at him.

“Hey,” you said, hoping to startle him. It didn’t work, but he did retract his hand. “She’s not supposed to be up there.”

Ignis pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I told her to get down.”

“Likely story.” You closed the distance, picking up your noodle of a cat. “Mister Darcy, you know better.”

She stared at you, limp in your arms, as if challenging you to make a fuss. The kettle on your stovetop began to whistle, and Ignis went around you to tend to it. You left the kitchen with your cat in hand, setting her free on the floor. She curled around your feet, her purring so loud you could practically feel it against your calves. Such a brat, only friendly when she wanted to be.

You were delving into the files when Ignis joined you, a mug in each of his hands. Helping him place them on coasters, safe from spilling them on any documents, you asked, “Have you heard from Gladio?”

Ignis’ eyebrows arched over his glasses, as they tended to do when he didn’t catch his expression in time. Surprise. Maybe discomfort. You were still learning how to read him.

“He called on Tuesday. Only to say that he still lived. He’s conserving battery power as much as he can.”

No shit, you thought. He’d only ever texted you since he’d left, and you could count the number of messages on one hand. The last one had promised another message by… today, actually. Your phone had been on your coffee table all day, untouched for how unlikely you found his message to come. You understood how important it was what he was doing, how dangerous it was out there. The bitterness welled in you anyway.

Your place felt so empty without him around being a nuisance. Ignis was over often, for work, and Prompto had stopped by a couple of times to catch up whenever he was in town. You had friends. Kind of. But you missed your boyfriend.

Which was exactly why you didn’t need one. This was always bound to happen. You knew firsthand that relationships didn’t last, no matter how much love and work went into them. You tried to wash down the bitter feelings with a long sip of tea. It was still too hot and only succeeded in scalding your tongue and throat.

Wonderful.

You put the mug down and grimaced. Just focus on work, you told yourself. Gladio and the feelings he brought, both good and bad, had no place here. Not while your boss was here, expecting you to focus. Taking the fat accordion binder in hand, you put it on your lap and sat back. Time to pitch the compendium idea to Ignis. He seemed like a man that appreciated good organization. 

Ignis tutted, putting his own cup down. “Ah, I forgot my spoon.”

You’d made fun of him once, for needing a spoon when he never mixed anything into his tea. A heat sink was necessary, he’d said, so as to not scald the mouth. Now that your esophagus was aflame, you found truth in his words.

As he came to a stand, Darcy weaved herself between his feet. She mewled, and he tripped on his first step, falling right onto you. Papers scattered out of the binder in your lap, onto your sofa and the floor. One of his knees landed between your legs, trapping you with the weight of his thighs. He caught himself just before falling flush to you, his hands seizing the top of the sofa on either side of your head.

You swallowed hard. Because your throat was burning. Not— Not because— His face was extremely close. The tip of his nose brushed the arch of your own. His lips parted, his breath softly hitting your face.

“My apologies.”

You felt the words on your skin and smelled the tea he’d sipped right before he’d gotten up. He didn’t move for a moment, almost as if he wasn’t sure how to get out of this situation. His legs rested over yours, effectively seating him in your lap with one thigh so unfortunately caught between your own. The binder kept… certain places from coming into contact, crumpled between your bodies. His chest rocked just centimeters over your own, closer now that your breathing had picked up.

You swallowed again, attempting to will your heart to slow down. What was happening? This— Ignis pushed away, taking with him more than just his own weight. Relief hit you, even harder than it had when he’d announced the end of your training sessions. You dropped your head back and closed your eyes.

That was weird. That was incredibly weird.

You heard Ignis walk to the kitchen and opened your eyes when you felt he was out of sight. Papers were strewn across the sofa cushions. You collected them, pushing them into the binder without mind for organization. More papers were found on the floor when you stood up. You frowned at them, at your messy handwriting.

A compendium? What a waste of time. Ignis wouldn’t recognize the use in this— he’d literally never see it. You grit your teeth and fought your growing confusion. With the bitterness over Gladio and the uncertainty regarding yourself and your job, you had little room for anymore uncomfortable emotions right now.

The old system was better, and you had to fix this. All Ignis needed were the audio recordings, anyway. The binder slammed when you dropped it onto the coffee table. You paced a circle around it, berating yourself for wasting so much effort on something so stupid.

Part of you could still smell the ginger of Ignis’ tea. You wiped a hand over your face to get rid of that feeling and stopped pacing. Picking up the binder again, you made yourself calm down. Ignis would notice you getting worked up, and you didn’t want to talk about what had happened.

Because nothing had happened.

As your breaths became slower and more even, your eyes dropped to your phone. Lit up with a notification, it vibrated weakly against the tabletop. You moved the binder into one arm and picked it up. A quick swipe of your thumb displayed a new message.

** _Gladio:_ ** _ I miss you. Wait for me _

You couldn’t gather the energy to smile, although the message made you happy. He came through, like he’d said. It wasn’t much, but it reminded you that you weren’t alone. You didn’t care how sweet his words were, only that they anchored you in place. They _ had _ to.

Spoon in hand, Ignis returned from the kitchen. His expression bore none of the discomfort you felt, but he wasn’t an easily read person as it was. You watched him sit and cleared your throat to catch his attention.

“Gladio texted me,” you said, returning to your seat. You caught Ignis’ succinct nod right before he brought his teacup to his mouth. You sent back _ I miss you, too _ with the hope that it would actually make it to him.

“You mentioned a better organizational method?” Ignis spoke up.

Oh, you were wasting time. Ignis hated that. Right. You looked down at the binder and the scattered notes sticking out unevenly between the folds.

“I changed my mind.” You tucked the papers in, knowing they weren’t in the right places among the collected data. “It’s fine the way it is. Should we get started on the Rogue?”

His spoon clinked on the side of his mug as it put it down. “If that’s what you want.”

You froze, the binder heavy on your lap, one of your hands clenched around your phone. You didn’t know what you wanted. For Gladio to come back, maybe? For the sun to never return so Gladio, assuming he even _ made _ it back, wouldn’t be able to see all of your flaws in broad daylight? For Ignis to not do that thing he did of casually unbuttoning the topmost buttons on his shirt every single time he settled in for a day of work with you?

As you thought this, one of his hands did just that, the pinch of his mouth easing once the hollows of his collar bones were unveiled. His hand lowered to his lap, where his legs crossed at the knee, and your eyes followed the long line down to his red-soled shoes.

You startled when he said your name, realizing you hadn’t answered him. You cleared your throat again and gave him a nod he couldn’t see. “Yes. Let’s start there and work back.”

“Capital.” Ignis withdrew your recorder from a pocket, his long fingers getting a feel of the interface before pressing one of the buttons. A light whirring sound followed, and he explained, “I’ve been listening to your notes. There are several details I find interesting— You described the hands of the Rogue on the coffer as marred and broken. Do you remember if it was more so than the rest of the place?”

Right to business. You thought back on the trip and tried to rid your mind of the thought that Ignis had privately been listening to your voice drone on for weeks now, between your training sessions. Ignis seemed to think you were covering ground, but nothing felt like progress to you.

Whatever your ultimate goal, you had a feeling much of it dealt with whoever was lingering around the tombs before your crew made it to them. Which was something Ignis never deigned to talk about beyond the occasional, “He was here.”

To say that there were question marks littering your notes wouldn’t have been a lie. Still, you pushed forward, ridding yourself of all thoughts beyond your research.

* * *

**M.E. 768**

You fall asleep in the car on the way into Insomnia. The last thing you see is the Wall on the horizon, your face warmed by the morning sunlight pouring through the window. Whatever detailing Cindy had done overnight, it had worked to rid the space of the puke smell. So you sink back and slip away in the sunbeam, a feeling you didn’t think you’d ever experience again.

The city wakes you, the honk of a car and the chill of buildings blocking out the sun. Eyes fluttering, you lean your aching head against the cool glass of the window and stare. At the pedestrians with their bags, pushing carriages, walking dogs, wearing neon safety vests. So many different people.

You move your tongue around your mouth to conjure moisture. The taste of the breakfast you’d had at Takka’s had soured during your nap. With the lift of your head, you lean forward as far as the seat belt allows, your hands clutching at the sides of the seat in front of you.

“Where exactly are we going?”

Gladio glances at you. It’s a quick turn of his head, an instant of his eyes meeting yours before returning to the road. He says nothing, and you give his profile a long look. If everything wasn’t so messed up right now, you’d almost envy his long hair.

Your answer comes from Ignis, who shifts in his seat. “The Citadel.”

“For… processing or something? I thought you were taking me home.”

A beat passes before Ignis speaks again. “We are. You live in the palace.”

“What?” Your grip on the seat tightens, fingers digging into leather. “Ignis, what? Th-the Citadel?”

“I live there as well.” He says it as if that’s meant to assuage you. “Gladio, too, when not at the Amicitia estate.”

You let go of the seat and sink back into your own. The dull, constant throb in your head pulses harder as you try to think back. What the everloving hell could’ve gotten you here? Living in the Citadel, you must’ve followed Ignis once the sun returned. Working for him was fulfilling in a way that differed from your previous jobs, but you hadn’t thought for a second that it was worth relocating over.

“Almost there,” Gladio speaks up. It’s a grumble but holds none of the feeling from the day before. Whatever unpleasantness that had been going on between him and Ignis must’ve passed, although you can’t say the same for your own discomfort.

That’s just where you are now, stuck in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar place in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar body. The medicines you’d been given on discharge from the hospital helped with the bouts of nausea and dulled the headaches, but there was no relief from the constant flux of confusion hitting you at every turn.

The car slowed and began to circle a long drive. You’d only ever been into the Citadel for simple, legal reasons. To apply for a new Crown City citizenship card—you’d lost yours somewhere in Duscae as a teenager—once you and your parents had returned to finally settle.

Statues stand, lining the way leading up to the entrance, the ornate architecture remaining _ mostly _ intact. It’s still the center of the city, a modern castle that had survived the fall. Your gaze flits over it all in quick, searching sweeps as the car slowly comes to a stop.

Two people you don’t recognize stand at the foot of the staircase leading up to the main entrance. Gladio and Ignis get out first, and you’re not inclined to immediately follow. Your hand rests on the door handle, your eyes shifting between the faces of the strangers as they talk to each other, then to Gladio. A woman among the pair approaches him, and he lifts her in a hug, burying his face into her hair.

Ignis tries to open the door for you, but all it does is click, pulling uselessly against the handle held tight in your grip.

“Dea—” Ignis pinches his lips and pulls on the handle again. Another click with no give. “Could you release the handle?”

You let go, tearing your gaze away from Gladio and the woman. The air is wet and chill. You pull the cardigan tighter over yourself and step out once Ignis has the door open. New faces, unfamiliar voices, all of them coming toward you at once— You reach for the closest thing, grabbing Ignis by the arm.

He pauses at your touch, but it’s a small discomfort in comparison to the overwhelming unfamiliarity hitting you. The Citadel casts a shadow over your surroundings, the afternoon sun now far enough west in the sky to hide behind the palace.

You blink and look down, focusing on the feet of each person greeting you. Welcoming you home.

“I’m sorry I had to rush back,” says the person with dirty boots. You make yourself look up and meet their face. It’s the woman Gladio had hugged. “I tried to stay for as long as I could.”

You grip Ignis’ arm harder, and he lets you, unmoving while you nod numbly at the woman. How can you be upset at her leaving you if you don’t even know who she is?

Her face is kind but holds open curiosity, large eyes made wider in their rake over your appearance. She turns to Gladio, her voice in a soft excitement. “It’s just as you said. Fascinating.”

Before you can process that, she’s reaching for your free hand. You clench Ignis’ arm, fighting the urge to pull your hand away when she takes it in both of her own.

“You don’t appear to recognize me. I’m Sania Yeagre.” Her hands are firm, shaking your hand twice before letting go.

Your other hand is forced loose, your clenched fingers opened by Ignis, whose patience seems to have run out. You look up at him, then at his hand prying yours off of his arm. Quickly pulling your hand away, you take stock of your situation with more clarity. You can’t cling to the only person you really know just because everything is so unfamiliar. You don’t _ really _ know even him.

Arms coming to cross over your stomach, you chew on your bottom lip and meet Sania’s eyes. They’re still wide, a deep brown sweeping over you. You gather the energy to ask, “We’re friends?”

Suddenly alight, she smiles. “Good friends, yes.”

You want to believe her. Tearing your eyes away from her expectant gaze, you look at Gladio. He’s more relaxed now than he was throughout the trip. It’s difficult not to notice how close behind Sania he stands. Discomfited, you brave a look at the second new face to escape the creeping disappointment

It’s a man with a round face, lightly scarred and youthful. His smile doesn’t reveal teeth, but the way he excitedly rolls his feet between the toes and heels of his boots suggests he’s holding back.

“Welcome home,” he says. His eyes stray from you to a point behind you, then return to your face to search a little. “Remember me? It’s Talcott.”

You’re suspended for a moment at that. So, this is Talcott. What the others had said makes sense now. He’s— he’s a kid. You sink further inward, weakened by another wave of disappointment. You don’t know what you’d been expecting.

His hands, clasped behind himself the entire time, come loose, one of them idly touching an ear. He sends another look past you, uncertainty blooming in his expression. “Time to send her up, sir?”

“Yes,” Ignis says, passing you. “Thank you, Talcott.”

You send a glance between Gladio and Sania, then follow Ignis up the massive staircase. He doesn’t slow down for you, but Talcott stops to hold out an arm. You take it hesitantly, your fingers gripping at the crook of his elbow as you conjure up a nod in thanks. Out of the car, the background feeling of nausea is less striking, but you're still fatigued.

—

The walls are white and unadorned. You walk from room to room, unimpressed but intrigued all the same. The floors are impeccably clean, the marble of the corridor outside becoming hardwood at the entrance hallway, then carpet in your living room. This is apparently your home, and like the soft admittance from Talcott that Mister Darcy is long gone, it’s a painful pill to swallow. 

Ignis had said goodbye unceremoniously at the door. More of a farewell than he’d given Gladio, at any rate. Talcott, who seems sweet if a bit disorganized, had answered your immediate questions and said to call him if you needed anything. You step into the kitchen and spot the candle he’d said he’d lit before coming down to welcome you back.

Cinnamon. Your favorite, Talcott had said.

You lean over the counter and blow it out. At what point did that become your favorite? You stare at the puff of smoke until it disappears, then open cabinets at random. Everything seems to be in place, pots and pans and cups in places you almost expect to find them, but you must never cook. At least _ that _ hasn’t changed. Everything is shiny and new.

There’s an unfinished glass pan of some kind of baked pasta in the fridge that suggests _ someone _ is cooking for you. Probably Talcott. He seems to be some kind of helper. You’ve heard of assistants who need their own assistants. Maybe Ignis had hired one for you. You close the door to the fridge and frown to yourself at the dumb thought.

It hurts to think about Mister Darcy, but you can't say you're shocked by it. Strangest of all that you hadn't gotten another pet since. You live alone, and you hadn’t gotten your shit together enough to become a cat lady. What have you been _ doing _ with your life?

Bookcases line the walls of what must be your office, but they’re filled more with odds and ends than literature. You stop midway through the room to look at an unidentified piece of pottery sitting on a shelf at eye level. It’s similar but not quite identical to a piece your parents had had in their home.

You keep from touching it and consider the withered piece. Then, you backtrack through this empty home. It’s giving you nothing; you need to dig deeper.

—

There are guards posted at different areas and entrances of the Citadel, but none of them stop you when you leave. You don’t know why they would, as if they’d know you were an amnesiac let loose in an old-but-all-new city. If your place is anything to go by, you’re a person void of all personality and importance.

The walk is long, primarily due to the fact that your parents lived far across the city from its center. The neighborhood had been an upscale suburb on the edge of the city, not far from the Wall. You don’t know what awaits you there now, but the Wall remains unmoving in the distance. As does the Citadel every time you look back.

Constant breaks on dirty benches get you there by evening, passing through crowds of people going about their lives that continue to shock you. There are so many of them. Had this many really survived the decade of darkness? Your head throbs without relent by the time you see the street sign on the corner.

It’s the same as before, and it gives you a false hope that, when you make it down the street, you’ll knock on the door and find your parents there, waiting for you. Your mom had been moving out when you’d left all those years ago, but the fantasy persists. She’ll be there with your dad. They’ll be together, and they’ll apologize for everything they put you through, you’ll apologize for leaving, and everything will be okay.

The house is, like everything else in the area, shockingly intact. You slowly take the walkway up to the door, swallowing down your nerves and the accompanying pain in your head. There’s no response to your knock. Or the second. Or the fifth.

You inhale deeply and peer out on the lawn. It’s well maintained, flowerbeds lining the steps leading up to the door. There’s no car in the driveway, but it could be in the garage. You knock again, harder this time.

Silence follows, and you sink down to sit on the uppermost step. You know they’re not here. Not your parents and not whoever actually lives here now. You know this, but you can’t stop the tears. Mister Darcy is gone. Your parents are gone. Everything has disappeared, and the world is worse now.

The ache in your head becomes impossible to manage. Squeezing your eyes tightly, you hold your face in your hands and let yourself just— melt.

—

Your chest is heavy and your head feels as though it could have its own gravitational pull. You hear a vehicle pull to a stop and lift your head to make out a black suv through the moisture clouding your eyes. Wiping it away, you remain there on the stoop while Talcott hops out of the driver’s seat.

His eyes are everywhere, on you, the house, the lawn, the house next door, down the street, back to you. “She’s here.”

You’re surprised to see Ignis rounding the vehicle behind him. His voice carries across the lawn. “Are you all right?”

Throat feeling thick, you try to swallow down the weight and bury your face in your arms again. You’re not going anywhere, if that’s what they’re here for.

Talcott is closer when he speaks again. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home, sir. She’s on the stoop.”

You whip your head up to tell him to leave you alone and startle at how close they are. Ignis’ hands are on his hips, his head tilted down toward you. You blink more against the freeflow of tears, unsettled as ever by the pointed way he faces you despite being unable to see.

Although his stance is reprimanding and impatient, his voice lacks any of the sharpness you expect. “You’ve been here. Before this section of the city was restored, you came here for closure.”

You wipe at your face with your palms and clear your throat. “That’s what I’m doing _ now. _ I’ve got to get my parents’ stuff.”

Talcott looks from you to Ignis, then turns his back toward you both, his gaze sweeping the street. Ignis’ arms drop to his sides, and he takes another step closer, right at the foot of the stoop. You have to crane your neck to look up at him.

“As I said, you’ve already gathered their things. I believe they’re in your flat at the Citadel.”

“They are,” Talcott speaks up over his shoulder.

You wilt against the porch railing and lean your head on the uppermost column, closing your eyes. “I didn’t see them.”

Talcott is quick to speak up again. “I promise they’re there. I— Yesterday, I saw them. I can—”

“Thank you, Talcott,” Ignis interrupts, holding up a hand toward the young man. He lowers it a moment later to offer it out to you. “Will you return home now?”

You stare at his hand for a beat, then take it. He lets go as soon as you’re at a stand and waits for you to go ahead. Talcott gives you a small smile on the walk across the lawn. You don’t return it, instead wiping as much of the wetness from your face as possible.

“Your feet must be sore,” Ignis says, following behind you. “Talcott, make sure she’s unharmed when we return.”

“Yes, sir.” Talcott radiates positivity, answering both of you so quickly.

“I’m fine.” You climb into the back and pull hard at the seatbelt. In truth, Ignis is right; your feet are aching. But you’ve lost your memories, not your validity or personhood. The Men can worry all they want. That doesn’t give Ignis the right to have you looked over at every turn. You’ll soak your feet when you return to your empty apartment. You don’t need their fuss.

You’ll be fine, you think to yourself, even if you aren’t right now.

—

Talcott assuages you as soon as you’re back in that desolate, white-walled hell of a home. Your parents’ things are dispersed around the place like he’d said. The piece of pottery you’d been skeptical of before now looks every bit as familiar as the one you’ve seen countless times. Talcott lights the cinnamon candle while explaining that you’d rearranged the place before leaving on your trip to the Mrylwood.

“That’s why everything’s so clean,” he says, shaking the match to put it out. He isn’t looking at you, circling about the room to throw the matchstick away. “And um. You might’ve taken some things over to Ignis’ place, so anything you can’t find may be there.”

Leaning on the counter to put less weight on your feet and alleviate some of the soreness, you ask, “Why?”

Talcott flusters, crossing his arms before letting them fall loose, his hands clapping together. “Why? Good question. Why would you do that?” He lifts a hand to his nape, palming it awkwardly. “I don’t know. You did— _ do, _ you do what you want. Who am I to question that? You and Ignis are— are close friends. He’d be better to ask.”

You stare at him, slightly endeared at his awkward explanation. So you just… do what you want? Interesting. You can’t fathom why he's explaining it that way or why he’s becoming flustered in the first place, but he seems, if nothing else, trustworthy.

You haven’t missed the fact that he’s the second person to push you toward speaking more in depth with Ignis, but after today’s events, you don’t feel especially inclined to talk to him yet. So far, he’s led the reins in attempting to care for you since you’d woken up. To be passed off to Talcott as soon as you’d arrived in Insomnia makes you think Ignis can’t be _ that _ good a friend.

Part of you appreciates the space he’s giving you. Another part wants to know, if he _ is _ your best friend, why Ignis isn’t here with you now, trying to help you remember who the fuck you are.

Talcott begins to pale under your prolonged stare. “If you want, I could go next door now and see if Ignis has anything you might’ve left.”

You push off from the counter and wince at your sore feet. “No, that’s okay. Thanks, Talcott. You can go.”

“Oh, right! If you need something, call me. I’m training for the rest of the week, but Ignis had Cor assign— ah, I mean I’ll be here. Just let me know.”

You’re tired of his blustering now. He really seems like the sweetest kid, but between your pounding head and pained feet, you can handle only so much. “Got it.”

To carry the point harder, you walk him to the door and see him out. You go so far as to take a step out into the corridor, your bare foot hitting the deep cold of the marble floor, to wave at him. When he’s out of sight, you peer both ways down the hall and wonder which door, adjacent to your own, leads to Ignis’ home.

He’s your boss, your supposed best friend, and your neighbor, too? Such a prominent part of your life, it’s no wonder he’s the one everyone thinks you should talk to. And you will. Probably. When you’re ready. Eventually.

You retreat into your unfamiliar home and lock the door for good measure.

—

You wake the next day with a slightly less agitated brain than you had since leaving the hospital. You see that as a sign to finally take a shower. It’s difficult looking into a mirror without hating the sight of yourself, but you need to in order to carefully get the bandages off of your head.

You’re meant to be asking for help with this. The doctor in Lestallum Medical had made it clear. _ Check in with a psychiatrist and an occupational therapist at least once a week. Have someone drive you to each appointment, and let someone know when you’re changing the bandages so they can redress it for you properly. _

You roll your eyes and pull at the tape and gauze. It stings, pulling at your hair and pulsing at what you think must be the impact point on your skull. You hiss but keep going until it comes completely away. Leaning over the sink, closer to the mirror, you try to get a good look at the injury, but it’s just bruised and red. The hair is shaven closely around a perfect line of stitches.

Grimacing, you almost touch the stitching. They shaved you! Wasn’t it bad enough they cut the rest of your hair so short? It’s only a small part, and you think, if you’re careful, you can cover the bald spot with another part of your hair, but it’s still horrible.

You throw the gauze into the trash and turn on the shower. Getting undressed is a delicate process, easing your shirt over your head before stumbling out of your pants. You spend more time in the shower than you plan, and by the time you’re dressed and wrestling with the task of applying a new bandage—courtesy of sweet Talcott—there’s a knock at your door.

It’s loud enough to startle. Your eyes water at the corners, the tender place on your head aching terribly. Another, even louder knock elicits a heavy sigh out of you. Throwing the gauze into the sink, you cross through your place to the front door. Talcott needs to take a clue from Ignis’ behavior and give you some space.

A peek through the peephole, though, surprises you. The familiar face on the other side has you opening the door in spite of your embarrassing appearance.

“Iris!”

She’s a broad smile and warm arms around you within seconds. You don’t notice until pulling away from her that she isn’t alone. Sania stands just behind her, and when you usher your friend inside, the extra body joins in as if this is totally normal.

“Your hair,” Iris says, holding your face in her hands.

You laugh through the pain that continues to radiate from your head. “Hideous, right?”

Her golden eyes dance over you. “It looks great.” She lets go of you, her grin widening. “From what the others have said, I thought you wouldn’t remember me. I’m so happy things are coming back to you.”

You don’t get the chance to say that isn’t strictly true. She turns to Sania, taking a large plastic container from the other woman’s hands. There’s a bounce to her step when she faces you again. It’s so like her. You can’t help but relax at the familiarity. She looks more mature, longer hair and more tattoos on her bare arms than you recall, but she really hasn’t changed.

“Talcott said Iggy made you lasagna or something, but I thought, with everything going on, you’d feel better with something else to tide you over.” She lifts the container. “So I made that stew you love.”

You have no idea what stew she’s talking about but accept it from her anyway. “Thanks, Iris.”

When you turn toward the kitchen, she stops you with a hand on your elbow. You startle, looking from her to Sania in confusion.

“Your head.” Iris’ smile drops, and her eyes grow wide. “That’s… I didn’t know it was that bad.”

It hits you then, that she hadn’t noticed your bald spot—you want to cry just thinking about it—and she’d only been talking about your shorter hairstyle earlier. You tug your arm out of her grip and rush out of the entranceway to put the container down. You need to cover up that ugly spot as soon as humanly possible. They follow you into the kitchen, and you really wish they wouldn’t.

“I-I need to get a new bandage on. One second.”

Sania finally speaks, and it’s surprisingly kind, considering you’ve ignored her since they’d shown up at your door. “Let me help you.”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, feeling her on your heel anyway.

She trails you to the bathroom and makes you sit on the toilet when your admittedly lame attempt to shut the door in her face fails. Her hands are careful and precise, lifting the wad of unused gauze from where you’d left it in the sink and folding it while looking you over. She rummages through a cabinet, giving a soft _ aha _ when she finds a tiny pair of scissors. They’re meant for cosmetic purposes, but she uses them to cut a clean line in the gauze.

Her fingers guide you by the chin, tilting your head so she can get a better look at the cut. You squirm uncomfortably, both at the pain and at having a veritable stranger take care of you this way. Her expression remains easy and assured.

“You’re acting like you had before.” It comes out of her, muted amusement clear in her tone. She inspects the medical tape before measuring off a piece. “When Gladio and I began seeing each other.”

You would sputter, if you had anything to say to that. But you don’t. It’s just another thing you don’t remember. It hurts when she applies the bandage, her fingers only brushing the area around the stitching. You wince and tilt your head further.

“What do you mean?”

“Mild antisocial behaviors. Avoiding eye contact. Refusing all interactions, friendly or otherwise.” She grabs one of your hands, guiding it up to hold part of the gauze in place for her while she cuts more tape from the roll. “It’s fascinating but unfortunate. Of all the points in your life, this is the one you’re enduring until your memories return to you. Assuming they ever do.”

She speaks matter-of-factly, and it holds you in place. The doctor had said something like that before releasing you from the hospital. You may never recover your long-term memories. Which meant, in a way, you wouldn’t ever have to return to being whoever it was you’d become. But in another, much more likely scenario, you’ll have to adapt to becoming something close to your Future Self.

That cinnamon loving, stew eating stranger, living in an empty apartment. Friends with her ex-boyfriend’s wife and unreasonably close to her boss, of all people. You still don’t know if you _ want _ to know her.

Sania nods her head and steps back from you. “There. You’re set, for now.”

You would stand up, but she’s standing in the middle of the small space, blocking the exit.

“We became friends before,” she says, that curious tilt to her head returning. As if you’re a puzzle to solve. “Although it’s impossible to conduct a controlled method to this, I hope we can create the same results with the appropriate amount of time and work. What do you think? Good, right?”

You blink at the suggestion and the odd way it’s presented to you. She sounds presumptive, but her expression is patiently open and waiting.

Slowly, you nod. “Okay.”

Her smile returns. “Excellent.” Without hesitation, she takes one of your hands and hauls you up. “I spoke at length with Gladio. Because of Ignis, he thinks we should delay introducing you to Clarus, so I’ll withhold myself. For now, I want to make up for my delay in noticing your peril while we were in the Myrlwood.”

She’s leading you out of the bathroom, talking faster than you can process. You say nothing and send Iris a wide-eyed look once you’re in the living room. As soon as Sania lets go of your hand, you sit next to Iris on the couch and deflate between her and the cushions. You feel her laugh against your side, and when she reaches an arm around you, it’s the greatest comfort you’ve felt since waking up.

You’re eternally appreciative that, if nothing else, she hasn’t changed.

—

“You’re what?”

Iris grins and leans back, arching her hands high and wide. “My birthday celebration. We were planning it on and off before you and—” She drops her hands, and her smile becomes sheepish. “Before you left Insomnia. Now that you’re back, we can plan it again.”

You nod, undisturbed by that part of the info dump she’d just given you. She’d spent the better part of the afternoon filling you in on everything she could think of, from large things like Prompto’s big, dramatic move to Hammerhead to be close to Cindy last year to the most recent minor gossip of Talcott leaving an embarrassing pair of underpants out in the open of a Crownsguard locker room.

Those are all great things to know, but you’re asking about one very specific thing. “You said you’re turning twenty eight. Really? Iris, how is that— how?”

Iris laughs, then stifles it when you don’t share in the amusement. She clears her throat and brings her hands together in her lap. “I’m twenty seven.”

Even though you’ve taken all of your medicines, the thought of this brings an ache to your head. Iris can’t be twenty seven. You’re only twenty six, and you’re years older than her. You close your eyes and think about it. A realization hits you, hard and sudden, that you hadn’t taken into account yet another truth.

“I’m in my thirties?”

Iris says something you can't make out over a rising sound in your ears, a sharp ringing that accompanies the dull pain in your head. You take back your earlier thoughts of Iris being unchanged. It’s unreasonable to expect things to remain the way you remember. You know that.

Shoving that particular truth to the far reaches of your mind, you open your eyes and sigh. “Anyway. Your birthday?”

Iris doesn’t immediately take the bait. She looks from you to Sania, and you fight another sigh. Then, easing in her spot next to you, Iris begins to describe the party you’d begun to plan together when you’d been someone else.

—

After several days of isolation in your apartment—no one has visited since Iris and Sania, and you don’t want to ask Talcott for help—and you begin to rethink your plan to keep to yourself. In fact, you think you’re losing what little you have left of your mind. It feels like purgatory, all of the books in your office being the same exact ones you’d had back in your Lestallum home. Intermingled with your parents’ things, it’s a mesh of two very separate parts of your past.

If you’ve died, this is the worst afterlife.

You flip through the pages of your favorite book. It has the same dogeared marks, tanned with age. You’re deep into the plot, loving the conflict and the understated notes of romance when you get another visitor.

This time, you’re glad for it. You hope it’s Talcott, with his flustering and strange need to make sure he hasn’t disappointed you. Then, as you get closer to the door, you hope it’s Iris, or even Sania. Spending time with them had been a slanted, strange experience, but this is your life now.

You open the door without peeking through the hole and stall in the doorway. “Oh.”

Ignis, with his pressed jacket and neatly tucked shirt, stands in the corridor, playing with the clasp on one of his gloves. His head tilts upward at your noise, and his mouth opens two beats before he says a word.

“Good afternoon.”

You want to ask what about it must be good. If not for the tall windows that line one of the walls in your apartment, you wouldn’t ever know what time of day it was. You sleep and eat on whims, and you keep hedging another shower because your injury makes it unbearable.

Ignis presses his lips together tightly at your long silence, then says, “I’ve dropped by to give you something. I’m going to be out of the Crown City for the weekend, and I think it’s important for you to have structure.”

Is he reading your thoughts? You tear your gaze from his face to the file he’s holding in one of his hands. Is he… is he serious? He’s giving you work to do. With your condition. Seriously?

However ridiculous it is, you take the file, grateful for _ something _ to focus on. If it’s even possible to focus on anything. Your mind has been wandering endlessly, and reading your favorite book has so far been the only thing to keep it in place. You’ve never been so bored.

“Thanks, Ignis. I’ll have this done by the time you get back.” It’s a familiar sentence, one you’ve repeated countless times, and for a moment, you feel okay. You have no idea what it is he expects you to do or what the file could contain, but you’re going to at least attempt to get it done.

“That is appreciated but unnecessary.” His hand, now empty, curls into a loose fist and falls to his side. “Please take care until I return.”

“You, too.” An automatic response, it leaves you along with a nod.

You think this is the end of the exchange, but he doesn’t leave the doorway. He adjusts his glasses and seems to roll his shoulders to force an easier countenance over himself. Then, he says, “I heard you’ve met with Iris and Sania. How are you adjusting thus far?”

“Uh.” Not expecting any continuation, you bend the folder a little in your hands. “I’m okay. Haven’t remembered anything yet.”

He adjusts his shades again. He doesn’t need to, and the repetition has you shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You would think his behavior strange if you actually knew this older, seemingly more stern Ignis.

“You’ll recover in due time.” His tone is pithy and dismissive, and again, you think this is the end of the conversation. But… he just stands there.

You chew on your inner cheek and bend the folder in your hands the other way. This is the first time he’s really spoken to you since arriving, and it’s more awkward than you could’ve expected. Maybe he feels bad for keeping you at a distance. At least, you hope he does. You’d decided to invite his mothering only to be cut off entirely. You don’t want anyone to baby you, but you need a support system.

These thoughts swirl, and you blurt, “P-Prompto said—” Biting your lip, you shake your head. “Never mind.” You can’t say _ Prompto said we’re like best friends. _ It sounds silly.

“No.” Ignis’ shoulders have lost that ease from earlier, rising slightly with tension. “What did Prompto say?”

Warmth blooms on your face, and you’re grateful he can’t see it. “He said— He suggested that you might be able to help me the most.”

His mouth curls a little in what you think must be displeasure.

You hate the look of it and scramble to say more, bending the folder completely between your hands. “I’m sorry. You must feel like you’ve lost a good friend, and I can’t pretend to be her. I won’t be until— unless I remember. So, um.” You’re beginning to hate everything about this interaction. “We can find common ground and be friends again. I just need some time.”

Ignis’ eyebrows arch over his shades. You wonder if you’ve messed up, and open your mouth again to fix it. Somehow. Luckily, he doesn’t let you dig yourself deeper into this increasingly uncomfortable situation.

“I would like that.” His shoulders relax, and the sight of it makes you ease in return. He gives you the smallest smile. “I’ll visit you when I return.”

You resist the urge to express how much _ you _ would like that. As much as you’re in no rush to discover yourself, you _ are _ insanely bored. If Future You liked Ignis enough to be his best friend, there has to be something about him that had drawn you in in the first place.

He leaves on that note. Finally. Alone again, you straighten out the folder and take it to your living room. It’s light and contains only three pages. The first is a schedule. It’s handwritten on lineless paper, the penmanship impeccable but written at an uneven slant.

_ 07:00 - You make coffee for us both. You take it with too much sugar. _  
_ 07:10 - You remind me that you hate coffee. _  
_ 07:55 - You tell me about a meeting we must attend in five minutes. _  
_ 08:00 - We arrive in the nick of time. _  
_ 09:30 - Meeting over, you describe councilman Artus’ ridiculous new haircut in detail. _  
_ 11:00 - We have lunch. Sometimes Talcott joins us. _  
_ 11:10 - If Talcott hasn’t joined us, you give me grief for having him train so often. _

The schedule continues like this all the way to six in the evening. Small details, all useless, clue you in on your daily routine. A smile creeps onto your face. Such an odd, friendly thing for Ignis to have done. You put it down to look over the other papers. The second one is a printed list of self-care tasks. The last is information about your upcoming appointments with therapists. Boring.

You toss them onto the coffee table with a sigh. So dumb. Of course he wouldn’t actually give you work. You aren’t entirely sure what it is that you _ do. _ Glancing over the self-care list, you chew on your lower lip. You told Ignis you’d get something done, so you may as well…

Grabbing the book you’d been reading before, you settle back into the couch and start on the _ Do a relaxing activity _ point on the list. Easily accomplished.

—

Between trying different hairstyles to cover up your little bald spot and eating all that’s left in your fridge, the weekend passes uneventfully. Talcott drops by both days, saying it’s his first weekend off in months. He’s a Crownsguard, which you wouldn’t normally find interesting, but he’s practically the only human you have contact with. Everyone is extremely busy, he says. Iris and Gladio with their own training, Sania with her science—you think? you haven’t figured her out yet—and Ignis with his work.

If you hadn’t lost your memories, would you be that way, too? Working endlessly? Maybe that’s why your apartment is so drab and bare. Unused because you’re never here. Until now.

The visits from Talcott serve to both enlighten you on things happening around you while bringing a slew of even more questions along with it. The Crownsguard are still a thing, apparently. Prince— King Noctis hadn’t survived whatever it was he’d done to bring light back to the world. The details escape you, even after hearing Talcott explain it.

You try not to be insulted when he laughs at your suggestion that _ you _ may be a Crownsguard yourself. Working with Ignis, one of the most important members of the guard, makes it a real possibility. You’re glad you aren’t, though. The training sounds miserable. You don’t know why Talcott loves it so much.

By Monday, you’re anticipating Ignis’ return with excitement and dread in equal parts. You’ve transitioned from alone to lonely, and with your busted phone, you have no way of actually calling Talcott to spend time with you like he keeps saying you should.

When midday passes without a single knock at your door, you become antsy and prepare to go out. You’re out of food, you miss human contact, and you tire of staring at yourself in the mirror, fantasizing that you have beautiful hair again. The length is a lost cause, but you spend most of your time fixing it before leaving. You refuse to rejoin society with a glaring bald spot on your head. The injury hurts less every day, and you’ll be glad to finally let that spot grow out once the stitches are removed.

Hand on the door handle, you take in a deep breath and slowly let it out. You’re just buying food. Maybe you’ll get your phone fixed, too, so you’ll know how to get in better touch with the others. Maybe you’ll go to a park, see a familiar tree, and all of your memories will rush back.

Who knows? You don’t!

You turn the handle and push the heavy door open, coming to an immediate stop at the sound of Ignis’ voice in the corridor.

“...it’s prudent that we handle it with care.”

Another voice, this one unfamiliar, follows with, “Understood. I’ll follow up with you later in the week.”

“Good.”

The voices pass your door, and you remain still, uncertain of whether or not closing the door now would be more suspicious than just letting the conversation play out. They don’t seem to notice it’s cracked open.

“By the way, sir.” The unfamiliar voice is scratchy, making you imagine the person as old. “I heard your wife returned from Altissia recently. Give her my best.”

Ignis hums. It strikes you, both the sound and his quick response. “Of course. Much appreciated.”

Footsteps pass by your door again, this time in the other direction. You hear another sound from down the corridor, where Ignis must be going inside. Then, you wait for the telltale _ thud _ of his door closing. It doesn’t come. Instead, several beats later, Ignis speaks again.

“Aranea, hello.”

There’s no response. You wish you could see through the crack in the open door, but the angle isn’t right. So you listen intently instead.

“Any progress?” Ignis hums again, different this time, thoughtful and drawn out. “It’s a possibility, but that remains to be seen.”

He must be on the phone. Not being able to hear the other end of the conversation is disappointing, but your curiosity keeps you in place.

“I know Altissia takes much of your energy, but nothing good ever comes from dwelling.” He sighs quietly, and you itch to push the door open further. “Thank you, dearly.”

There’s a brief silence, then footsteps. You realize a moment late that they’re coming closer to your door. In a bid to not have your eavesdropping become obvious, you loudly jiggle the handle and push the door open just as Ignis reaches you.

“Ah, I can’t tell if my timing is ill or entirely perfect for you to be opening the door before I’ve knocked.”

You can’t help it; your gaze drops directly to his hands, searching his fingers over for any rings. As always, he’s wearing gloves, so it’s impossible to tell. Forcing your eyes upward, you say, “I’m about to head out, actually. I need food.”

He nods once in understanding. “That’s a fair point. Allow me to go with you.”

You want to brush him off because you can do it on your own. But he’s finally visiting, and you have to admit, at least to yourself, that your curiosity is piqued. Older Ignis is stern while remaining congenial, and he swears more and smiles less than you remember.

“Yeah, I'd appreciate it.”

Another nod, and he’s walking with you down the hallway in amiable silence. You keep sending him side glances to help digest what you’d overheard. 

You aren’t surprised he’s married to Aranea. Any shock you feel at this revelation stems from the fact that he’s married at all. He just doesn’t seem like the type. You wonder when you’ll see her. Considering how irritating your last encounter—that you remember—with her had been, you don’t hope it’s anytime soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been through so many drafts. Reader doesn't realize how socially inept she is (in any timeline) and totally wilts around people she perceives as better than she considers herself, specifically Aranea and Sania in this one.
> 
> It feels strange to update after _six entire months_, but I'm glad to be giving this work my attention again.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://ohdaim.tumblr.com/) (ya I still go there lol) for wips, updates, and general nonsense. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	4. I’m a split identity. A breath held underwater. A little softer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this has helped me cope with the current state of things. I hope this update serves as a good distraction, however briefly. Let's get angsty together, friends!

**M.E. 764**

Music was one of the scarce joys left in the world. It soothed aches as well as helped them grow deeper. It served to remind you, at the very least, that there were reasons to keep living. Even if the reason was something as silly as singing. You could hold a tune, but not for long and never in front of others. When the conditions were right, though, you sang for yourself. Loudly and terribly.

You’d found an old stereo in your mentor’s storage unit a few months after his disappearance and had brought it inside out of curiosity. It was no salvaged gramophone like the one in the hunter’s Lestallum safehouse, but it had to be as old as you were. It played cassettes and CDs, the likes of which were already uncommon before the fall of society. Too heavy to be moved often, it stayed downstairs in the living room at all times, tucked between shelves to be hauled out when you needed a break from the silence.

It blasted a ballad now, turned up as high as the volume would allow so you could hear it from upstairs. You sang along, unevenly and sorrowfully. The heaviness in your chest, compounded by your loneliness, abated just a touch at every refrain. You missed Gladio, but rather than cry over it, you were playing out the entirety of a disc you’d burned for the car ride across Lucis the year the world went dark.

Packing for your next trip—Ignis was going to be there any minute—you made the rounds of your bedroom, the bathroom, and the library to gather everything you needed. You’d done it so many times, it was a thoughtless task at this point. The only difference between this trip and all previous was how large your party was going to be. You didn’t know who was joining you and Ignis, but you hoped they didn’t wreck the flow like Aranea had.

You stopped singing and heaved a sigh. You’d been lucky to have Aranea with you last time, and you were regretful at having initially disliked her. But only a little. All she’d done was lead you through the darkness, keep you safe, and tend to you while you were injured… She wasn’t _ that _ great.

Wrestling the clasp closed on your overstuffed pack, you forced it together until it snapped securely into place. Then, with a half-hearted toss of your hands upward in triumph, you threw yourself onto your bed. You were just going to lay there and wallow until Ignis arrived.

You realized a moment later that he _ had _ arrived. He walked past your open doorway with a pinched brow, your name coming out in a yell that just barely breached the noise of the music. You rolled off your bed and went after him. Finding him down the hallway with a hand on the door to the library, you touched his forearm. He stopped in place, and for a moment, your mind screamed at you to not attempt to catch him off guard. Because if all of your time training together had done anything, it clued you in first hand on the reflexes of this man.

Ignis always seemed to have his wits about him, though. Always a step ahead. He let go of the door handle and faced you. This close, it was much easier to hear him ask, “What’s going on?”

Your fingers slid down his sleeve and caught on his hand. Instead of answering, you pulled him to the staircase and led him downstairs. He didn’t need you to be his eyes for this, but leaving him standing and yelling in your hallway wasn’t something you were about to do.

You let go of him and crossed the room to turn off the stereo. The wailing tunes ceased instantly, leaving behind a slight ringing in your ears. The silence was unsettling. You wanted to turn the music back on, to feel the thrum of the bass hit you for just a bit longer. Instead, you looked at Ignis and said, “I'm done packing. Are we going now?”

He frowned. “Do you _ always _ listen to music so loudly?”

You hadn’t thought about it before, but— “Yeah.”

“You should have consideration for those around you.”

With a roll of your eyes, you crossed the room again and passed him on your way to the staircase. “My neighbors have never complained before.”

“Perhaps you simply hadn’t heard them over the noise.”

A small laugh tumbled out of you in surprise. He sounded like a mother hen, about to warn you of the dangers of loud music and being polite. At the top of the stairs, you looked over your shoulder to send him a grin he could only hear. “That’s the point.”

Pack grabbed and all lights upstairs turned off, you rejoined Ignis downstairs with excitement budding through your depressing listlessness. You were finally getting out of the house. It was going to be dangerous. Potential death, exciting!

Darcy curled herself in circles around one of your legs when you came to a stop in front of your boss. He still looked displeased. You didn’t know if you should be insulted or amused, and as you bent to pick up your cat, you decided it didn’t matter.

“It’s my sad mix,” you said, lifting Darcy in your arms. “I listen to it when things grow too close to unbearable. It brings me back.”

You listened to it as loudly as possible because that was the only way it felt like it worked. It drowned out your voice, so you could belt as high as you could without having to ever hear your own sorrow.

Ignis’ expression softened, and you suddenly wished you could take back what you’d said. Too personal. Ignis was your friend; you weren’t going to subject him to your vulnerabilities and flaws. He cleared his throat and lifted a hand to pet Darcy.

“We’ll be gone for longer this time.” He smoothed a hand over your cat’s ears and down her back. “Have you left Darcy enough food?”

Grateful that he was letting go of the loud music issue, you grinned again. “Yep. She’s going to be huge by the time we get back.”

Ignis tilted his head down slightly, tisking. “She mistreats you, I see.”

You resisted the urge to say he _ couldn’t _ see, and put Darcy down because Ignis, as you’d noticed in his almost daily visits these past months, lent himself to doting when it came to her. Playing with her while you worked together, bringing her sliced fish left over from the sushi he apparently made in town. She was going to follow him home some day if he wasn’t careful.

She weaved around Ignis’ feet, and you ignored her mews for attention in favor of adjusting the straps on your bag. Ignis would’ve been leading you out of the house by now, but he remained in front of you, slipping a hand into his jacket.

“I have something for you. A new precaution of sorts.” He rifled around an inner pocket for a moment, then withdrew something small and clear. “Several scientists have been working together on an antitoxin that counteracts the effects of being exposed to the darkness for long periods of time.”

It was a long explanation, ending with his outstretched hand. On his palm rested two little plastic, sealed bags containing capsules. You took them and slid your pack off to tuck them away. “And these are those?”

He nodded. “We have to take them daily while we’re out from now on. One of the scientists is a friend; she couldn’t guarantee they would work.”

You hauled the bag back on and sighed. “So we’re guinea pigs.”

“Essentially.”

You crossed the room to turn out the remaining light and walked past Ignis to the door. “Hey, I’ll take it. Even if they’re just placebos.”

“Hopefully they’re better than that.” Ignis followed you. “This is the third iteration. Gladio took an earlier version with him when he left.”

The mention of your boyfriend did nothing for your mood. Making sure Darcy didn’t slip out the door after Ignis, you locked up and inhaled deeply. Finally, something to focus on other than your loneliness.

—

What a foreign concept now, loneliness. If only you were still granted that kind of peace, mere hours from your home and all the solitude it brought. You were stuck in the center of a large group, walking along a muddy bank _ somewhere _ in southern Duscae. At least… you thought that’s where you were. Once at Lestallum’s gate, you’d ridden without much hesitation in the shaky, uncomfortable bed of a truck with six unfamiliar faces.

And Prompto.

A soft sigh broke the air, and you sidestepped closer to your friend. You didn’t have to ask him what was on his mind. You’d been walking for over an hour with no haven in sight, the road long behind. The air was cold and dry, and no amount of licking your lips helped with the harsh feeling. Nothing about the trip had been pleasant so far.

“Are we there yet?” Prompto asked, just as you expected.

You grinned, feeling no need to say anything. You were growing impatient, too, but the hike up Mount Ravatogh would remain the worst trip you’d had regardless of how this one went. You were far from complaining.

“Come now, Prompto, we’ve endured much worse,” Ignis said from somewhere on your other side.

His voice startled you in how close it was. He’d been silent for the entire trek, so you’d lost track of him quickly after leaving the road. For some reason, you’d thought he was at the head of the group.

Prompto sighed again, louder this time. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

“Just think about Cindy,” you inputted, recalling the topic he brought up the most. You didn’t know the mechanic, had never actually met her. But you knew, from his waxing poetic in the past, a few key things. “Think about her polishing your car. She’s working on a difficult spot, a crevice by one of the headlights. Bent forward with arms outstretched, she calls out that she needs you.”

A succession of groans filled the air around you, the most distinct coming from Prompto at your side.

“Hey, can you not?”

The group slogged through a deeper bit of mud as the land leveled out, and you held onto low hanging tree limbs as you passed along with the others, your boots heavy on your feet. “I’m just painting a scene to get your mind off things. Cindy needs your help, Prompto. It’s so hot in Hammerhead, sweat shines her skin in the murky light. She—”

Prompto’s laugh interrupted you, and he pushed you hard on the shoulder. You laughed in turn, stumbling a little in the mud and bumping right into someone.

“Sorry,” you said, the laugh dying down in your chest. You straightened yourself and squished through the mud with a steadier gait.

“Don’t stop there,” a hunter said from somewhere ahead. Other murmurs and agreements filled the air, and you felt a blush begin to burn. Right. You weren’t just traveling with Prompto and Ignis this time. These people didn’t know you or understand the joke of it.

“I think we’ve heard enough of this particular fantasy,” Ignis said, once again sounding closer than you realized. He must’ve been the person you’d run into earlier. You straightened yourself further, your face burning hotter. “Thank you for the entertainment, but this one should be saved for the campfire.”

You huffed out a small laugh despite yourself. “No problem. We’ll finish Cindy’s Erotic Paradise another time.”

You didn’t want to make any promises you didn’t intend to keep, and the small bit of cheering that followed your statement created a swell of anxiety that settled hard in your chest. These people didn’t expect you to actually finish this silly bit, did they?

“That’s generous,” Ignis said, and you felt his hand touch your arm at the elbow. “But you shouldn’t feel pressured.”

Another hunter, this time somewhere behind you, spoke up. “She started it. No one’s pressuring her.”

Ignis’ hand tightened on your elbow, sliding down to take hold of your wrist. You were made to sidestep closer to him, and just as your side bumped into his, you felt another hand ghost over your opposite arm.

In the amalgam of light from the torches clipped to everyone’s front, you saw the profile of a hunter whose name you’d forgotten immediately after introductions. You didn't recognize them, and slipped your arm away from their touch before they could catch a grip.

You felt further crowded by this and wished for distance from everyone. Pulling your wrist out of Ignis’ hold, you tightly gripped the straps on your pack and picked up your pace. You broke through the line ahead and joined whoever it was leading the group. They walked without comment, keeping a compass held up to their torchlight as they went.

Ignis’ voice was more distant when he spoke again, but you heard it over the general murmur behind you. “My guide is _ not _ going to be alluding to or participating in any overt sexual situations, however harmless or apocryphal.” He sounded insulted, and although you couldn’t distinctly hear what the others must’ve been saying to him, you grinned to yourself at his offence on your behalf.

You’d had worse bosses.

“Y’know who else I miss?”

The sudden question is followed by Prompto’s laugh and the wavering, uneven light from his lantern appearing next to you.

“How do you just _ appear _ like that?” You poked him with your elbow.

His laugh was light and endearing, and you knew without looking that he was sending finger guns your way in the darkness. “I wouldn’t be Prompto if I wasn’t quick.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right, uh-huh.”

He didn’t let your flat response dampen him, matching your step with ease. “So, you wanna know?”

It was all you could do not to elbow him again, just because you could. Because he was right there. You were happy he was along for this. Meeting a slew of strangers—which was a feat because you thought you’d met most hunters while working behind the bar—after contending with Ignis as your main source of social interaction for months was _ not _ something you could’ve handled.

You didn’t think Ignis would’ve liked it either. Without Prompto, Ignis would’ve been your lifeline in this unknown territory, an anchor for you to cling to while traveling. Like always.

The thought threatened to sour you, so you made yourself speak. “Let me guess. You miss Aranea?”

The punk had the audacity to gasp. “A-actually, yeah! It’s been too long since I’ve gone out on a hunt with her.” His tone became wistful, a part of Prompto’s _ boyishly charming-completely idiotic-strangely solemn _ cycle of personalities. He was now rapidly shifting from charming to idiotic.

“You’re terrible, Prompto.” You feigned disbelief, wanting him to stay charming so he wouldn’t be acutely solemn by the time you made camp. “Vying for _ two _ women. Can’t you save some for the rest of Eos’ dwindling population?”

“Admiring from afar isn’t selfish.” He snickered, his footsteps uneven next to yours. “It’s not like I’m pulling a Gladio. He was—” He cleared his throat and laughed awkwardly. “Never mind.”

You slowed in step, the mud at your feet growing thicker. Pressing forward through it, you reached out for Prompto to steady yourself and to keep his attention. Your hand grasped his forearm, sliding up until it hitched at his elbow.

“Don’t _ never mind _ me.” You used him to help you along, matching his pace just one step behind. “What do you mean by _ pulling a Gladio_?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” You sighed and fought the thickening mud at your feet. “I’m just curious. I’d love to know what Gladio has done enough times that it warrants its own phrase. What has he pulled?”

Prompto slowed in step, and the murmur of the group grew louder. You ignored the noise, pulling yourself through the muck by the grip on his elbow. He flexed and drew his arm forward to help you, but all it did was land you against his side.

“What _ hasn’t _ he pulled? The big guy’s always had it easy with the ladies.”

That wasn’t a shock to you in the slightest. You’d overheard a conquest story or five while bartending, directly from Gladio himself. Sure, the man was friendly, and with his strong presence, it was no surprise he’d have an impressive amount of sexual experience. Although, none of it had ever seemed problematic.

“N-not that you should worry.” Prompto was quick to tack on. “Gladio’s gotten around, but I think you’re the first relationship he’s had in years. He’s usually sleeping with five or six different women at once. Caused this huge fight at one of the hunter outposts when they found out. You’re kind of a huge deal, y’know.”

You hadn’t been worrying before, but now… heavy stones began to settle in your stomach. _ Pulling a Gladio _ couldn’t have had good connotations, obviously, but your boyfriend had _ that _ much experience?

“You’re not inspiring much confidence here,” you said, gritting your teeth at the difficulty you were having with taking simple steps forward. This was bad, both the conversation and the situation surrounding you.

You wanted to drill deeper into what Prompto meant, but something larger and louder than your relationship worries roared in the darkness ahead of you. Steeling yourself, you pushed away from Prompto and stumbled in the thick mud. It squished and pulled around your boots, and for the next intense stretch of time, you were made to realize why Ignis had trained you so harshly.

—

A resonant ringing broke the quiet of camp. You didn’t pay attention to it at first, content from the meager meal you’d shared with Prompto. You settled by the campfire while the others spoke softly amongst themselves or disappeared into the few tents that had been brought. The ringing didn’t stop, instead growing higher in pitch and closer in proximity.

“Time to take the capsules.” Ignis pressed a button on his phone and delved a hand into his suit jacket.

You followed suit, holding your bottle of water in the space between your crossed legs and digging the little bags out of your pack. You’d almost forgotten about them. When you found the pills, there was only one bag. Putting it aside on your knee, you dug through the rest of your things, pulling out your clothes, comb, and recorder.

The firelight revealed a rip in your pack, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary. You’d badly sewn shut plenty of tears before. The other bag must’ve fallen out during the fight earlier. Heaving a sigh, you stuffed your things away and sent a chagrined look up to Ignis as if he’d somehow just feel your annoyance without it being voiced.

It caught you off guard to see a similar look on his own face. He continued to pat himself down, then shoved fingers into the pockets of his trousers. It was like he’d lost his car keys. You watched the dance with silent amusement, pinching your smile between your front teeth.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said, his arms falling to his sides. “I’ve lost mine.”

You looked at the clear little pouch, counting out five pills. One for each day you were expected to be out. Thinking about it for only a moment, you lifted it up toward him. “You gave me two bags, Ignis. I think I have yours.”

He tilted his head your way. “Oh. I hadn’t realized.” The tips of his fingers brushed your palm when he reached down to take them from you. “Thank you. I’ll hold them from here on.”

You rubbed your hands together, unsure of yourself for all of a second. Ignis needed them more than you did. You didn’t think you’d ever understand what he was doing, taking you from one end of Lucis to the other, but you were sure his goal was more important than you were.

Taking a long drink of water, you settled back against a large rock and basked in the warmth of the campfire. Astrals, let sleep take you soon. It was difficult, though, with the way Prompto looked at you from the other side of the fire, which only grew more uncomfortable when Ignis sat beside you on the other side of your pack.

Ignis rarely lounged while you traveled, and you thought he only did it when he felt melancholy. It creeped you out sometimes, the long silences in which he’d stare into nothing and frown to himself, probably with the assumption that you’d already fallen asleep. With so many people here, you hadn’t thought he’d do it on this particular trek.

Turning your attention to Prompto, you shook your head at his prolonged stare. You weren’t finishing that Cindy story. She was a real person. A person you’d never met. It was weird, and you regretted joking about it before. Rather than pout like you expected, Prompto looked from you to Ignis, then leaned back against his own bag and closed his eyes.

“You’d think,” Ignis spoke up quietly. “On the third iteration of the antitoxin, they’d have developed a better flavor. Bitter dreams tonight, then.”

You rolled your head along the uneven rock at your back, looking at his profile in the warm light. He’d taken his glasses off and held them in a hand on his lap. His eye was closed as always, framed by the scar. You wished you could agree with his sentiment, and even more, you didn’t want him to realize you’d been unlucky enough to have lost yours before getting to use a single one.

“His hands are quick,” you said, rolling your head back to stare forward. “Like a magician's, holding something one moment only to make it disappear with a spark of magic in the next. She wonders if he does it on purpose.”

Ignis shifted at your side, one leg stretching out while the other bent at the knee to hold the weight of his forearm. It made you swallow, unsure of yourself once again. He didn’t say anything, only offering a soft hum to indicate he was listening at all.

“Does he intend to mesmerize? Is the purpose malicious or benign? She loses sleep over this every night, walking an unclear path one step behind him. She trusts him, but she doesn’t know why.”

Across the fire, Prompto opened his eyes. He blinked, staring upward, one of his feet bobbing restlessly. “She should just ask him.”

Before you could respond, Ignis did it for you. “Asking would imply she didn’t trust him. She doesn’t want conflict.”

You nodded, although neither of them could have noticed. It was more for the benefit of the hunters that remained outside the tents, who’d quieted to rest and listen. “She trusts him blindly. He holds knowledge she doesn’t, and she wants him to give that to her by choice. She’s playing the long game. In the meantime, she does nothing but watch and wait.”

Uncomfortable against the rock, you went quiet and shifted a bit to find peace for your aching back. The area around the campfire erupted in soft murmurs. You took another drink of water, considering the tired, unfamiliar faces of your companions. You weren’t sure where you were going with this, but it beat telling a story to fulfil a sexual fantasy for every horny, lonely hunter in camp.

“In fact,” you said, squeezing your water bottle gently with both hands. “She can’t look away. The longer she watches, the more she’s mesmerized and the less concerned she is over the ambiguousness of his intent.”

“So she falls in love,” a hunter said. They rolled over, their head resting on their bag, to face you. “Even though she doesn’t really know him.”

You released your hold on the bottle and let it slip back into the gap between your crossed legs. “She does, and it excites her. She begins to see his sleight of hand as a sublime charm and always looks for his next move, hoping to someday understand how it works.”

Prompto abruptly sat up, his eyes wide and eyebrows arched high. “I don’t get it. What’s the point? Is the guy a villain or what?”

You grinned, glad for his interruption. Ignis could and would often stay silent forever anytime you told a story, but Prompto hardly had the patience. “He’s confused. This woman keeps following him, and she seems to be amazed by everything he does, even the simplest things. He likes the way it feels when she looks at him, though, so he never says a thing.”

Prompto drew up his legs and rested his arms on his knees. “Makes even less sense.”

Ignis caught you off guard by speaking up again. “Magic comes naturally to him, so he doesn’t realize that’s what had attracted her. She’d heard tell of him and wanted to see it for herself. She found his charm greater than expected, so she continues, despite her reservations, to pursue him.”

You lifted your head to look directly at Ignis. He held his glasses loosely in one hand, the other idly touching a strap on your bag, sprawled on the ground between you. There was no point to this. For it to be hijacked by him confused you, but you weren’t going to complain. What he said felt right.

“Because they refuse to voice their true concerns,” you continued. “They travel together, reaching great lands but never crossing the arms length it would take to understand one another.”

Ignis turned his head, one pale eye trailing blankly over your face. “If she asked him about his nature, neglecting every one of her sensibilities, how would he answer?”

An appreciation for Ignis you hadn’t felt before began to bud, warm and light in your chest. “When that happens, he slows down so she can catch up. Words fail him, but the sudden match of their steps makes him want to finally close that distance. He shares his knowledge, and she’s the one left wondering what her own intentions were from the beginning.”

“So _ she’s _ the villain,” Prompto gasped.

“Could be.” You laughed quietly. “Story’s over. I’m tired.”

The general murmur of the camp returned, and Prompto threw himself back again, pretending he was much more comfortable than he actually was. Unless he really did enjoy sleeping on rocks.

You leaned into your bag, sending Ignis a whisper. “Thanks for playing along.”

He nodded once, then tilted his head back. His quickened but steady breathing told you he wasn’t nearing rest, but you couldn’t say the same for yourself. Getting comfortable again, you closed your eyes and let the sound of the daemons sing you to sleep.

—

You felt nauseous. Between the confusing layout of Costlemark Tower and the potent miasma of the monsters that came at you in each room, you didn’t think you could handle much more. Ignis kept saying the end was near, and you wanted to believe him, you really did. The cuts on your arms from defending yourself and the burn of your leg muscles told you he had better be right.

More and more hunters had stayed behind to patrol the places you’d been so far and fight anymore daemons that could reemerge from the ancient stonework. So you stood with Ignis, Prompto, and two others at what you hoped was the last area that would lead you to what you’re supposing will be another tomb. You had to admit, only to yourself, that the place was stunningly intact.

Your parents had forwent ever visiting Costlemark because the facade of the tower above ground made the place appear caved in. Parts of it were crumbling, sure, but you could’ve conducted a decent study of the ruins as they were now if it weren’t for the daemons. Not that that was even remotely the point here.

What you understood the least about this was how close you were to another, much more easily accessed tomb outside. You’d gone there alone with Ignis and Prompto on the second day of the trip while the hunters scouted the area. Going right into another dungeon hadn’t been your expectation. You’d signed on for danger and excitement, but two tombs in one expedition was a bit ambitious.

Ignis walked ahead of everyone while you kept to the back with Prompto. His ranged fighting style meant he always knew where to go to keep a distance, and you wanted to keep that in mind because you were exhausted. You knew how to fight much better than before, thanks to Ignis, but your stamina, unlike theirs, wasn’t held within a bottomless well.

“If memory serves,” Ignis said, coming to a stop in the center of the massive room. “Mind that you don’t step on any glowing red circles on the ground. It’ll transport you back up top.”

“Sounds great.” You’d called it loud enough to hear your voice resound off the walls in a mild echo. “Could use a shortcut out of this _ literal _ hellhole about now.”

The lamplight from your torch, still filtered through its broken screen, cut lines across high walls as you spun a slow circle to take in your surroundings. This room was different somehow. You took note of the spot Ignis had mentioned, an ominous rune of red shining on the floor just head.

Ignis’ arms were crossed when your lamplight finally met him. “At least try to fight the temptation, for my sake. I need you.”

You blinked at the brazen comment, but whatever response you could’ve formed was immediately swallowed by a groan from Prompto at your side.

“Aw, man. I totally forgot about the shifting floors and puzzles.”

That piqued your interest. “Puzzles?”

“The kinetic stones have all likely reset,” Ignis said, raising his voice to gain everyone’s attention. “I know that doesn’t bode well but traversing them will be necessary.”

“Okay.” You were ready to move on, even if your body was screaming for rest. “Where do we begin?”

Ignis shook his head. “You should remain here for the time being. You’re ill equipped to handle such danger in small, confined spaces.” He unfolded his arms and hitched one of his hands on his waist. “Prompto, stay here with her. If you remember, we resurfaced twice in this room before going down a final time.”

You frowned at this news. So no puzzles for you, then. Things had _ almost _ gotten interesting. As exciting and dangerous as it had been so far, you wouldn’t consider fearing for your life at every turn the most fun thing you’ve chosen to do with your time.

Prompto heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I don’t really remember anything but the sliding walls.”

“In any case,” Ignis said. “The route is labyrinthine and may take us some time. Make yourselves comfortable here until it’s time to join us.”

“No argument from me.” Prompto’s smile was loud in his voice. He sat on the floor right where he stood, unloading his bag from his back. “We’ll stand guard just fine.”

His idea of _ just fine _ was clearly much different from yours, but you found yourself sinking down to sit with him anyway. Singing with relief, your muscles relaxed somewhat. You did need a break. Maybe Ignis knew that and wasn’t actually trying to insult you by saying you couldn’t handle the maze that seemed to exist right below.

When he and the two remaining hunters disappeared minutes later down a slowly sinking chunk of the floor, you took back the thought. Nausea hit you again, your stomach turning with the thought of being separated from your usual traveling companion. You swallowed down the feeling, hating that you’d become so dependent. Ignis would hate it, too, if he knew.

Again, you were glad for Prompto’s presence. Looking his way, you stretched out your legs and played with the lantern clipped to the front of your shirt. “Been here before, too, huh?”

He nodded, a flash of blonde hair in your torchlight. “It’s hard, but coming back to all these places reminds me of what it had been like before.”

“Miss the prince that much?” You were prying but lazily, almost certain he’d close himself off the same way Ignis did each time the subject came up.

“Yeah,” he said with a small laugh. “I miss Noctis, like, every day. But I meant the way we’re together again. It wasn’t always like this. After Noct left, the guys and I saw each other less. For a few years there, we didn’t talk or see each other at all.” Another laugh escaped him, this one lighter and punctuated with a sigh. “Off in our own dark places, I guess.”

You were completely taken by surprise at both his open honesty and this information on their past. Even if it was only a peek, it held such a heavy clue about their relationship. You would’ve been lying if you said you hadn’t wondered how Prompto and Ignis had become friends in the first place.

“What I said about Gladio before,” Prompto continued before you could say anything. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Everybody says I’m the klutz, but we’re all stumbling in the darkness here. I’m glad he found you.”

You stopped messing with your lantern, dropping your hands to your lap. So Gladio had been trifling toward women in the past; that didn’t change how much you liked him.

Prompto leaned your way, digging an elbow into your side. “And I’m glad you’re there for Iggy, too. He’s never stuck around anywhere for long, not until you came. It’s like he’s finally settling down, and it’s making all of us worry a lot less.”

You shoved his elbow away. “All of us?”

“Me, Gladio, Iris, Aranea.” He shrugged. “And you, too. You’re one of us now. Noct’s gonna think you’re great when he gets back.”

You… didn’t know what to say to that, for a number of complicated reasons. So you forced a light laugh instead. “I wouldn’t call traveling all over Lucis to these tombs equivalent to settling down.”

“Are you kidding?” Prompto’s lamplight moved in a wide arc across the ceiling as he laid back. “Iggy used to stay out in the dark for weeks, or even months. Gladio and I tracked him down in Leide once, and he told us to fuck off.” His laughter filled the room, echoing off the stonework. “And not in that stuffy Ignis way. He was pissed and said we were a hindrance.”

A smile crossed your face, his infectious laughter doing what it always did to lighten your mood, if only briefly. “So you went your separate ways. Was he right?”

“Nah.” Prompto didn’t hesitate in answering. “I learned a lot on my own, but if I have to be miserable waiting, I don’t see why we can’t all be that way together.”

You understood the sentiment, although the waiting game had only recently begun for you. He really thought the prince would return, when you weren’t even sure Gladio would ever come back. You wished you could believe that hard about _ anything, _ and mentally thanked him for including you in the wait. Having him and Ignis did make it more bearable.

With no response to offer, you rifled through your bag for your recorder. If Ignis was right, you’d need it somewhat soon. The room grew quiet but for the ambient, ominous noise of stone shifting somewhere beneath. Probably because he’d only just left, you had none of that same fear of Ignis not coming back.

He would, you were certain.

—

It had been, by leagues, the worst trip you’d taken yet. Forget everything you’d thought on the hike to camp that first day. This was the worst. Ignis had returned twice over, as promised, from the stonework maze. The second time, he was accompanied by only one of the hunters, who was distraught at having lost the other.

You’d had to help Prompto separate the hunter from Ignis to keep him from lashing out at your boss. You didn’t know what had happened below, but you doubted it had been Ignis’ fault. People were dying every day; it was a hard truth you thought everyone, especially hunters, had long accepted.

Prompto had gone back to the entrance with the hunter, who’d broken down into unintelligible wailing by the end of it. Going alone with Ignis on the final descent into the maze, you’d ended up facing a daemon you were sure would rule your nightmares for the rest of your life. You didn’t know how you’d gotten out of the situation alive. More than that, you didn’t want to _ think _ about it.

By some miracle, you were here, finally above ground. Your voice in the recording had been wavering and breathy, full of the fear and adrenaline you’d felt from the last encounter. Now you sat on the campground and wished you didn’t see the daemons everytime you closed your eyes.

“What are you planning for when the sun returns?”

It’s a question asked by an unfamiliar voice, and you look up to see one hunter looking at another. They sat nearby, facing the campfire.

Prompto sat between you and them, chewing on one of the antitoxin capsules. The conversation drew him out of his quiet reserve—he’d reached _ strangely solemn _ in the Prompto cycle—and he lifted a gloved hand into the air to snap a finger.

“I’m gonna go right to Hammerhead and tell Cindy how I feel.”

You sent him an incredulous look. “You could just do that now.”

He gaped, blinking against your lamplight in his eyes. “Well, what about you? What’ll you do once the sun’s back that you can’t do right now?”

It wasn’t going to be a popular opinion, but you refused to pretend you felt any other way about it. “The sun is never coming back.”

Prompto’s mouth slowly came to a close, and he shook his head, the corners of his mouth pinching into a frown that looked out of place on him.

“You’re wrong.” Ignis startled you, his voice coming from your other side. When you turned to him, he was lowering himself to sit on the other side of your bag. One long leg stretched out toward the fire, he faced you. “Noctis will return, as will the sun.”

You bristled, the adrenaline from before melting into anxiety that searched for any way to escape you. “You don’t know that. Even if it _ did _ happen, how can you be sure it would happen in our lifetime?”

Unlike Prompto, Ignis didn’t immediately frown. His open eye focused downward, then flicked back up almost meeting yours. “You lack all the facts. He’ll return.”

“Right,” you were quick to say. “And I’m going to get married, have ten kids, and die of old age.”

“Is that what you want?”

You grimaced and buried your face in your hands. “Shut up, Ignis.”

He didn’t listen. “If the sun were to rise tomorrow, is that what you would want for your life?”

This wasn’t fair. You were still trying to cope with what you’d just experienced. You’d traversed and fought your way through Costlemark. You’d followed him every step of the way. You trusted him to lead you, but that didn’t mean you had to agree on this. There was no reality in which the sun coming back made any sense to you. So much so, you’d avoided ever giving consideration to the idea.

“I’d like to get married myself, if I’m allowed to be particularly optimistic,” Ignis said once it was clear you weren’t going to answer. “Serve the crown and rebuild.”

From your other side, Prompto mumbled an agreement. The general chatter of the other hunters revealed more positive responses, sharing the attitude of your friends. You curled inward, holding your face in your hands, your elbows digging into your thighs. How they could kid themselves like this right after what you’d gone through on this trip alone was a complete mystery to you.

Ignis spoke again, the timbre of his voice much lower. “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

You tilted your head, looking over at him. It hit you then, through the blurriness in your vision, that you were tearing up. You couldn’t remember being this afraid in all your time outside of Lestallum. You couldn't remember being this afraid _ ever, _ and you weren’t sure what it was. If it was only now catching up to you, the turn your life had taken the moment you’d said yes to working for him.

Blinking through the moisture, you said, “I’m not going to lie and say I agree with you.”

Ignis lifted a hand, slightly off base for touching your shoulder. Fingers brushing your temple, he quickly adjusted, closing his palm against your cheek. “Stop hurting yourself.”

You swallowed and leaned away from his touch. “Stop being strange.”

“Is it strange to worry about you?”

“What are you trying to get at, Ignis?”

“I’m talking about the intensely loud music you use to deafen yourself, the meals you regularly skip, and the basic lack of self preservation you often display.” He dropped his hand to his lap. “I’ve romanticized my own forms of self harm for enough years to recognize it in another. I, too, once found moments of hope like this a waste of time.”

You stared at him, raising your head to wipe at your eyes. “So now what, you’re enlightened?”

“I’m attempting to say,” he began, delayed for a moment as if to consider his words. “That you deserve a spouse, ten kids, and to live a full life.”

You grimaced again, slowly this time. Only it went beyond that, a breath in became shuddered, catching in your throat while more tears began to build in your eyes and spill over. This was deeply uncomfortable.

You buried your face in your hands again, stifling every sound you made. Neither of your friends said anything. Prompto jumped at the opportunity to share a tent with several others, but Ignis remained by the campfire.

Part of you festered with anger, specifically at him. The audacity of him to say all of those things to you after the day you’d had. You’d gone through Costlemark, and there hadn’t been a tomb at the bottom. All you’d found were daemons and ruin. Which he’d asked you to describe while sending you leading questions about the area and any clues of it having been recently visited. Nonsense.

It took hours to let out that frustration, forced out through heavy breaths, stifled sobs, and the residual sniffing once you were cried out. By then, the anger had become humiliation. It was a thin line to tread. You cleared your throat once the campground had grown quiet enough to suggest that most people were asleep. Ignis tilted his head your way, letting you know he’d heard you.

“I don’t believe the sun will come back,” you asserted first and foremost. He hummed curtly in response, but you ignored it. If you didn’t admit it now, you never would. “But if it did, a husband and a cat would be good enough. Maybe a kid. That’d be nice.”

A small smile grew on his face, and he leaned toward you to whisper, “Thank you for playing along.”

You watched the way his lips moved as he spoke, growing more uncomfortable by the second. Forcing yourself to look away, as you had far too many times before, you cleared your throat again. “Sure.”

It felt impossible to play with the idea of hope. You’d always felt that way, prior to any of this. Turning over everything Ignis had said for the hundredth and final time, you rested your head back and pretended to believe it. A husband and a cat. Maybe five cats.

“Yeah, five cats,” you breathed. “Five very good cats.”

Next to you, Ignis shifted in your periphery. “Hm?”

Smiling, you closed your eyes. Everything about this was stupid, but here you were, growing intensely warm next to someone who cared. “Goodnight, Iggy.”

—

It was as if Iris knew you’d been crying while away. She arrived the day after your return to Lestallum, crashing into your house to rifle through your closet and coerce you into going out. Because there were few bars in Lestallum as it was, you wound up at Duke’s.

The bartender who’d replaced you was younger and cuter. And a man. He winked at you when handing you your first drink—a rum and Jetty’s—and it was a struggle not to laugh. Had you been the kind of bartender to wink at customers? You couldn’t remember now. You tipped him, feeling a wave of sentimentality at how thankless the job was on most nights.

Iris hooked an arm through yours, showing off how much stronger she was by pulling you around the bar. The admiration for her was still going strong. People greeted her from all directions, and when she settled on a table of hunters, she pulled you closer to softly laugh and admit, “I have no idea who these people are.”

“I really need to write that biography,” you said, sitting next to her at their table. They were already offering her drinks, ignoring you completely. “I’d do well just by association.”

She brushed off the offers, lifting her beer to assure them she was covered— for now. “Gladio’s going to be jealous that you’d write one about me first.”

Your smile weakened. Gladio. There was a subject eluding your thoughts lately. Taking a generous gulp of your drink, you leveled a look at her. “You’re more interesting.”

Iris rested an elbow on the table, her chin falling into her palm. “Poor Gladdy. He’s gone for a few months, and you’re already falling out of love.” She smiled around a pull of her beer, and you were inwardly thankful when one of the hunters caught her attention.

As soon as she turned toward them, you took another drink of your rum and Jetty’s. Falling out of love? Since when had you been _ in love_? You liked Gladio. You really did. A lot. You liked him even though you hadn’t heard from him in weeks, his message telling you to wait for him being the last you’d gotten. He’d called Ignis at least three times since, which you’d found out through well-placed, subtle questions anytime Gladio was brought up around your boss.

Ignis was Gladio’s best friend, and you were just a woman he’d been seeing for nearly the same amount of time he’d been out of Lucis so far. It made sense that he’d talk to Ignis more. Right? You couldn’t say it was jealousy that soured your mood when it came to the thought. It was more of a suffocating discomfort. It hurt to think of everything you’d shown Gladio about yourself, and how unbalanced it left you feeling. He knew more about you than anyone, and that, to him, didn’t amount to you being his first contact. So you’d rather not think about it at all.

Iris gasped and threw an arm into the air. “Oh! Iggy actually came!”

You paused on your third sip, looking over your shoulder to see Ignis walk into Duke’s with a touch of uncertainty. More than he’d ever shown in a royal tomb, at least. As if this were the stranger place.

You smiled and hoped he heard it in your voice. “Ignis, hey!”

He nodded and came to a stop next to the table. “Your company sounds rather lively.”

Iris reached for a chair from the closest vacant table. “Sit with us. Where’s Prompto?”

“He’s likely halfway to Hammerhead by now.” Ignis lifted a hand as soon as Iris began to drag the empty chair over. “I prefer sitting at the bar.”

Iris let go of the chair and shrugged. “Okay, we’ll join you soon.”

Quickly, almost choking on the taste, you downed the rest of your drink. “Actually, I need another. I’ll go with him.” You pushed your chair back and winked at her. Maybe you hadn’t been the type of bartender to do that, but you could be the kind of friend that did. Maybe the alcohol was already affecting you. “Have fun.”

You touched Ignis’ forearm, fingers trailing down to take his hand. It was so commonplace, a touch likely unneeded but fluid from familiarity. He followed you across the room and took a seat with you at the bar. The cute, young bartender winked at Ignis this time when taking your orders. You let yourself laugh, amused that he didn’t seem to realize Ignis couldn’t see.

As soon as the bartender turned away to make your drinks, you rested elbows on the bar and leaned toward Ignis to conspiratorially say, “Bartender’s flirting with you, Iggy. What’s your move?”

Ignis didn’t catch on, turning your way with a furrowed brow. “Pardon?”

“He winked at you.”

Ignis’ brow eased. “Oh.”

You considered him, taking in his open collar and rolled up sleeves with interest. He’d only ever gotten this comfortable while in your home. Was he playing dumb right now? He looked, by all accounts, like he’d come to flirt with _ someone. _ The idea seemed absurd, given all that you knew about him, but why else would he suddenly be so clean shaven and smell of cologne like this when he never had before?

Before you could ask him if he was on the prowl—you would’ve paid all of your savings to witness it—the bartender placed your drinks on the bar. You dug into your pocket, beating Ignis at handing over a payment.

“I’ve got us both.” You nodded toward Ignis, practically shoving the money into the bartender’s hand. “Whatever he orders tonight, I’m paying.”

“That’s unnecessary.” Ignis hesitantly tucked his wallet back into a pocket. “But much appreciated.”

The bartender didn’t seem to care either way. He took the money and moved on to another customer.

You picked up your new glass and leaned on the bar again. “Iris convinced you to come out, too?”

He took a drink, then nodded. “Although, if I were you, I would’ve been hard pressed to leave poor Darcy all alone in that house of yours.”

“I’m beginning to think you want my cat,” you said with a laugh. “No pets of your own?”

“It’s a difficult thing to accomplish without a permanent home.”

He said it simply, like you were meant to accept the statement and move on. You’d assumed he had a place to live. Prompto had said as much while you’d waited in Costlemark.

“Where do you stay?”

“The hunter’s safehouse has plenty of spare rooms at my disposal.” Again, he was indifferent.

You bit your lip, contemplating your words before letting them flow out. “You can stay at my house anytime, you know. It’ll make work even easier.”

He shook his head. “I’m perfectly fine where I am.”

It was exactly what you expected him to say, but you’d wanted to offer anyway. You were a good friend. Inviting a homeless friend to couch surf was just what good friends did.

“Besides,” he continued, using long fingers to turn his glass in a slow circle on the bartop. “I spend most of my time at your home already. Sparing you from my tense, Ebony-free mornings is the least I can do for all the work you’ve done.”

“So you _ are _ out of Ebony.” You pointed at him, extending your hand to poke him so he’d know. “I thought you’d finally come to your senses and realized how gross it is.”

He hooked your finger with his own, drawing it away from his chest. “It’s excellent. You have poor taste.”

“Just because something’s expensive doesn’t make it _ good,_” you said, pulling your finger away.

You tapped your nails against the sides of your glass and watched a smile brighten his face. He schooled it within moments, but you’d already seen it. You’d already felt it, that appreciation for him that returned every time you saw him now, strengthened by these brief glimpses of warmth.

“I didn’t come here to have my preferences insulted.” He nursed his drink with another sip, going slow about it.

You followed his lead and stopped yourself from taking another drink. You were beginning to feel it, a looseness in your arms and a lightness in your chest. “Why _ did _ you come out? I, for one, needed a break from reality after that awful trip.”

He brushed his upper lip with his tongue, a quick swipe that should’ve been easily dismissed were you not feeling the rum in your veins. It stilled you. His mouth held all of your focus when he spoke. “Likewise.”

You chewed on your lip and forced your gaze up to his eyes, wishing he’d give you an actual answer. Iris popped up between you before the conversation could continue. She succeeded in getting you to dance with her, turning in circles near the pool table that didn’t match the classic rock guitar solo that played on in the background.

It caught the attention of the more outgoing patrons. Rather, Iris had. You told yourself it was her bright smile and the eye-catching tattoo that covered most of her upper torso that had people looking past you to her. But your recently formed bad habit of avoiding eye contact was doing you no favors. Neither was backing out of conversations now that you weren’t obligated to listen to people and their problems, like you had when bartending.

You left Iris to choose the next lucky person who’d get to be strong-armed into submission by her on the makeshift dance floor. Ignis was still at the bar, thank the Astrals. You touched his sleeve, tugging at it to get his attention.

“Dance with me.”

You tugged harder just once, hoping he felt the angst and sweats over being peer pressured. As your boss, he wasn’t quite your peer, but you’d bought him three drinks by now and felt camaraderie. Admiration. Affection. He was your friend full of hope, sitting next to you while you cried, telling you you deserved things.

“I’m far too uncoordinated,” he said, grabbing your hand to loosen your grip. “I’m content to watch.”

You laughed. “You’ll _ watch_?”

His hand ensconced yours, held between you as a smile came to his face. He let it stay this time, and you admired that.

“Iggy, you single-handedly took down that last daemon in Costlemark.” You pulled at your hand to get him up but the move drew you closer to him instead. “You’re the definition of coordinated.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” he insisted, not budging from his seat.

“But you’ll make me dance alone?”

“I heard two men ask you moments before you came over. You’re hardly alone.”

“Yet the one person _ I _ ask is giving me every excuse in the book to avoid it.” You let go of his hand, slipping yours out of his grip. It would be unfair to actually make him do something he didn’t want. You faked a heavy sigh, hoping he knew you were joking, that this was fine. “I buttered you up with drinks all for nothing.”

“Was that your intent?” His smile persisted. “To get me drunk enough to dance?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” You didn’t know what you were saying. Words spilled out without your permission. “You came in showing off a lot of skin and smelling amazing. You’re pretty much asking for it.”

His smile began to diminish. You immediately regretted your words. Telling someone they were asking for it was textbook sexism. Or did that only count if he’d been a woman? You didn’t have time for thoughts like this. Ignis was frowning, and it was your fault.

“Thank you, I suppose,” he said. “I haven’t been out for leisure in some time. I use my cologne sparingly, but I may have overdone it tonight.”

“No.” You touched his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. It was meant to be reassuring. “It suits you. You’ll catch more flies with honey, right?”

You had seen a few people approach him while you’d been dancing. Seeing him brush them off and remain alone was what compelled you to get him up in the first place.

His frown eased into a flat line. “All right. I’ll dance.”

You were surprised but immediately grabbed his hand, not wanting to waste this opportunity or give him the chance to change his mind. He let you lead him over to Iris and the others. His shoulders were squared, his back straight and stance proper. You attempted to match it but failed miserably. He was much quicker to conform to your movements, loosening up with every shift of his body

“I often forget how short you are,” he spoke up halfway through a song. “Your presence doesn’t match how small and delicate you feel right now.”

Delicate? You shot a look of confusion up at him. You were short, but you weren’t _ that _ small. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

He laughed quietly into your hair, drawing you closer when Iris and her partner made a broad dancing gesture nearby. “If I were going to compliment you, I would’ve pointed out how warm your voice is tonight, how soft your skin. You’re a lovely presence.”

Confusion melting into embarrassment, you pressed your forehead against his chest, unable to look at him even if he couldn’t see your expression. “That’s because I’m not overflowing with thoughts on our research for once. We only talk about work.”

“I could listen to your thoughts all day.” Ignis eased further against you, resting his chin on your head. “In fact, I have.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, nervous and— and thrilled. He couldn’t mean what he was saying, but you wanted to believe it. “I like working with you, too.”

He hummed, and the conversation dropped in favor of more dancing. Everything felt surreal, his hand holding yours, his arm around your waist, the music curling around you tighter and tighter, bringing you closer to him with each song.

Iris didn’t want to go home yet when you decided to call it a night. Maybe you were getting old; the idea of staying out all night and drinking more wasn’t in the least bit appealing.

She ordered another round and took hold of your hands. “You look drunk. Get Iggy to take you home. He looks ready to leave, too.”

You squeezed her hands and shot back, “No, _you _ look drunk.”

She grinned, then leaned to one side to call past you. “Iggy! Make sure she gets home okay.”

With a nod, he touched your arm, trailing it down to your hand, where he traded off with Iris. “Leave it to me. Have a good evening, Iris.”

The humidity of the Lestallum air hit you hard on the way out. Ignis’ fingers were caught between your own, and you resisted the urge to pull away. Holding hands like this made things sweaty, but you didn’t want to stop.

“I feel like special cargo. Transport me home, Iggy.”

He had to orientate himself first, but you knew the way, taking off in the route you used to take every morning from the bar to your house.

“First thing on the agenda is getting you rehydrated,” he said, being pulled along by your hand in his.

You repeated the way he said “agenda”, the soft -er at the end making you laugh. His accent was fascinating. You’d gotten so used to it, you often forgot he even had one. Until he said things like that.

“I’m glad you find my way of speaking so amusing.” His tone was dry, but one look up at him told you he was unbothered.

He didn’t comment again on any of your rambling that followed. Rambling that was unending until you were sitting on your couch, holding a large cup of water he’d handed you. He’d gotten himself water at your insistence, nursing it steadily while watching you from across the coffee table. Darcy lay in his lap, making him look like a villain as he pet her.

It was an appealing sight. The Lestallum heat and the dancing had made you both sweaty. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, since you often traveled together. You’d never seen _ this much _ of him, though. A blush crept along your face as you shamelessly admired his bared, sweat-slicked collarbones. One more button undone, and his chest would’ve been on display.

You squeezed your eyes shut tightly and took a large drink of water. You needed to sober up and fast. Ignis was wise to sit with a table between you because every second that passed alone with him, you had a growing urge to run your fingers through his hair.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was quiet, drifting over to you as if he didn’t want to startle the cat.

Letting yourself look at him, you took another drink of water and tried to make yourself focus.“I’m okay. Thanks for looking after me.”

You stretched out your legs, already feeling the muscle soreness that always came from drinking. Letting out a satisfied moan, you relaxed again and sipped more water. Even though it was quiet, this was nice.

“You should get rest once you’ve drank the entire glass.” He tipped his head back, downing the rest of his water in one sudden go. Darcy jumped to the floor when he came to a stand. “I should get going.”

Confused by the abrupt change, you stood up hastily. The world spun slowly in your vision. You closed your eyes, gripping your cup with both hands. “Wait. You’re leaving already?” 

When you opened your eyes, he was walking past you to the kitchen. “It’s for the best.”

You followed him. Your cup went next to his on the counter, and your bare toes touched his socked heels as he went to the entrance. “Busy tomorrow? What do you do when we’re not working?”

He bent to put on his shoes at the door. “Personal things.” He tilted his head up, his eye skimming over you. It didn’t unsettle you the same way it usually did. Rather than wave a hand in front of him to prove whether or not he could actually see you, you went back to the living room to get his shades, left behind on the coffee table.

“What kind of personal things?” You wanted him to stay for longer. You weren’t sure if it was an aversion to loneliness or if you just wanted him, specifically, to keep you company. You leaned in the archway to your little entrance hall. “Aranea said you don’t date, so do you work a second job or something?”

Ignis slowed in tying his second shoe. “If taking unwanted hunting contracts and fishing to fulfill the growing demand for sushi are considered a second occupation, then yes.” He pulled tight on the strings. “How else could I afford you?”

You played with his glasses, folding the temples open and closed again. He did pay you generously. You’d never had his sushi, but he must’ve been a master at the art for him to be making enough money from it to support himself _ and _ pay you. Either that or the hunting contracts he accepted held immensely high rates.

“So, rather than dating or having a personal life, you spend all of your time away from me making enough money to pay me to stick around.”

He chuckled, and you felt it in your chest. “When you put it that way, I sound deranged.”

You laughed quietly. “Poor Sage. When she asked you out for a drink that night, did you really turn her down?”

“Are you _ that _ curious about my intimate life?”

“Among other things.”

He righted himself in one smooth motion. Your gaze followed him up until you had to tilt your head back. Otherwise you would’ve gotten a face full of chest. Which, you’d already decided, was _ not _ a good thing to want or notice about him.

“It’s uneventful, I’m afraid.” He raised a hand above you to rest it against the archway and leaned down, close enough that you could smell the remnant of whatever aged liquor he’d had in Duke’s. “Aranea was correct. I have no patience for casual encounters or anyone incapable of emotional reciprocity.”

Breathing became difficult. If you ever truly believed he could see you, that moment was now. His pale eye was steady on yours, and his lips— they didn’t fully close. That peek of white teeth, his eye growing lidded, the drunken pink that dusted his face, it all made you swallow hard. What he said wasn’t fully processing.

You lifted your hands, his glasses in the grip of one. Rising on your toes, you meant to hand them over. So he could leave. It was for the best, he’d said so himself. Your free hand met his chest. It was solid and hot to the touch, the tips of your fingers grazing the skin of his collar.

His mouth parted further, surprise coloring his features. You closed the distance, your eyes falling shut. Lips meeting his, you were fumbling at the contact. His glasses were squeezed awkwardly in your hand, pressed in a fist against his shoulder to steady yourself. You felt the scar on his lower lip between your own and tasted the sour remnants of his drink.

He lifted his head, breaking the contact. A frown cut his face, growing sharper with each step back he took. Your arms fell, shock overtaking you. This— this was bad. This was _ really _ bad.

“Ignis, I—”

“Goodnight.” He missed the door handle the first time he reached for it, and when you stepped forward to help him, he lifted a hand to ward you off. “Don’t.”

He left in a rush, looking as disturbed as you felt. You turned the bolt lock over, walked blankly into your living room, and put his glasses back down on your coffee table. Suddenly, you felt as exhausted as you had when returning from Costlemark.

Crossing the room, you gripped both ends of the heavy stereo and pulled hard to roll it away from the wall. Your _ sad mix _ was already inside, left behind from the last time you’d listened to it. You pressed play and let the first refrain of the initial song wash over you. Good. Fingers slowly turning the volume dial up higher, you closed your eyes.

You wanted to pretend this was just an alcohol-induced nightmare. But you felt it, the vibration in your chest as the music thrummed through you. It wasn’t going to bring you back because you hadn’t gone anywhere; the emptiness you felt this time was your own fault.

* * *

**M.E. 768**

Doctor’s offices don’t bother you. They never have. The sterile atmosphere and complete attention of a medical professional feels like a novelty after tending to your injuries on your own in random camps for the last year. Except, you continue to remind yourself, that hadn’t been last year. You don’t know what you’d been doing last year. You wish someone would give you a clue.

This is the third office you’ve been to today, and no one, thus far, has given you any answers. At least, none that you want. The first doctor gave you a physical, took a bit of your blood, poked you to test your reflexes, and generally made you feel ridiculous. They pointed you toward the neurologist, who agreed with the doctor in Lestallum, after more tests on tests, that you need therapy. Both physical and psychological.

Because physical therapy doesn’t begin for another few days, you sit in the serene office of another doctor—a cognitive something or other—not expecting her to be any more helpful than the others. There’s an analogue clock on her wall, ticking along with each second. You find it more comforting than irritating, counting down the minutes until you can leave.

You pull at the too-long sleeves of your cardigan and wonder what Talcott’s doing in the waiting room. The hour is only halfway over; he must be bored. Probably more bored than you. You wonder if the doctor is, too. She keeps shuffling through the papers on her clipboard. She writes sometimes, too, but you can’t imagine what.

“So,” she says. More paper shuffling. “You last remember being on a trip in western Lucis. What were you doing before that?”

You stare at the cute _ How are you feeling today? _ emotional chart poster that rests below the clock. The expressions on the faces are exaggerated. It would make you laugh how childish and out of place it is if you didn’t feel so empty. You look around and think. It doesn’t hurt to play along. She’s just doing her job.

“Before leaving with Aranea and Ignis… I was with Gladio.”

She nods. “Let’s talk about Gladio.”

You blink, look at the clock, then shake your head. “I don’t have anything to say.”

Anything you could say would take more than half an hour to express. Gladio is the first—and _ only, _ as far as you know—person that you’d allowed to get close in your adult life. He knows you better than anyone. Or… he used to.

She smiles at you gently, as if you’re breakable. You don’t want this kind of nudge in the right direction. You want someone to say something concrete and definite, like Gladio had outside of that Crow’s Nest. You want to be crushed already, so you can begin again. You already _ know _ nothing is how it was, but no one is really telling you how it’s _ become. _

The doctor’s expression brightens. “Let’s explore that,” she says, readying her clipboard. “It sounds like you’re feeling frustrated.”

You didn’t realize you’d been speaking aloud. Clamping down on your tongue, you look at the clock again. Only a minute has passed since you last looked. So much for finding comfort there.

Hands gripping each other in your lap, you look down at them and feel a swell of discontent, heavy in your stomach. To say you’re frustrated is an understatement.

“Yeah,” you faintly agree. “Who am I, and what do I do? Why am I alone?” You lift a hand to touch your fringe. “Why is my hair short? Was that _ my _ choice or was that something they did while I was sleeping?” Throwing your hand down, you grip your knees tightly, leaning forward. “The sun is out, but I’m still in the dark.”

The therapist doesn’t give you answers, but she lets you vent in a way you couldn’t in front of Talcott or Iris. You still barely know Talcott, and Iris seems so _ mature _ now. It makes her as much a stranger as the rest. Saying that to the therapist is a difficult weight lifted.

You return to indifference by the time you leave, nodding numbly when she schedules the next appointment. Talcott is standing in the waiting room, as if he hadn’t given himself a second to relax. He looks you over with unrestrained expectation. If he thinks you’re going to look any different after a single session of therapy, he has a lot to learn. Nevertheless, you appreciate that he came at all.

“Guess what,” you say, walking through the door he holds open. “The doctor showed me some images, and I remembered something.”

He gasps, coming to your side. “That’s great. What do you remember?”

You sent a look up to his baby face, smiling through your mental turmoil. “That time you promised to take me out for ice cream. You never did.”

Talcott, like you expect, flusters. “I don’t remember that. How can—” He stops in front of his car—that same black suv he’d picked you up in before—and stares at you. “Are you joking?”

You grab the passenger door handle and look back at him. “Did I never joke before?”

He smiles, slowly but widely. “Yeah, sometimes.”

In the car, he asks if you actually do want ice cream. What you want is an explanation, more information so you could paint a better mental picture of yourself. The only active piece of advice from the therapist had been for you to ask for the help directly. Talcott, Iris, Ignis— they don’t know exactly what _ you _ don’t know. They aren’t going to fill in gaps for you if they can’t see them.

“Next time,” you say, settling against the window. This is far more complicated than it needs to be.

—

You dig through your closet as soon as you get home. If there is one place you think a person would be unable to hide their secrets, it’s there. Maybe it’ll be a shoebox of photos or a safe filled with love letters and jewelry.

All you find are clothes of questionable taste. One box rests on the upper shelf; bringing it down gives you an album of scratched up CDs—the same old ones you’d had in Lestallum—and a mug, broken into three pieces of ceramic. You sit on the floor of your bedroom and piece them together gently. The design is vintage, a faded Kenny Crow giving you a thumbs up on one side of its surface.

Putting it back, you get up and check the closet again. There _ has _ to be something. There aren’t any photos on any of your walls or unfamiliar personal items. It’s psychotic. Talcott had said some of your stuff was at Ignis’ place next door, but that only brings up more questions, none of which were answered the single time Ignis spent time with you since arriving in Insomnia.

Grocery shopping with him amounted to nothing more than being reminded that he still loves coffee.

You paced around your apartment, poking through things more in depth than you ever had before. Nothing. Gladio has a wife. Even stranger, _ Ignis _ has a wife. Yet you’re alone? You have nothing and no one. Just like before.

It’s easy finding your _ sad mix _ in the album from the closet, but looking for something to play it is another matter.

“How can everything change and still be exactly the same?” you mumble to yourself while checking under the bed. You can’t decide if you’re sad or angry. Some approximation of both feels right. If you could just find a stereo, you’d be able to _ express _ it.

Leaning more toward anger, you take the album with you out into the hall and walk directly to Ignis’ door. The knock isn’t hesitant at all, the bottom of your fist slamming the wood as hard as you can. It isn’t until Ignis opens the door less than a minute later, his face a perfect portrait of confusion, that you realize you may be approaching this too aggressively.

You force calm and pointlessly hold up the album. “Do you have a CD player I can borrow?”

His head shifts downward to better face you. “Oh, good afternoon.”

You lower the album with quiet, repressed dismay. Still too aggressive, you tell yourself. “Right, hello. Sorry to bother you.”

He shakes his head and takes a step back. “You aren’t a bother at all. Come in.”

Not expecting this, you step through the threshold and wait in the hallway while he closes the door. He’s wearing an apron, and you can smell something savory coming from someplace in the apartment. You wonder if Aranea is home.

“You’re looking for an old stereo?” Ignis leads you into a kitchen. “Surely you remember those being obsolete.”

The disappointment you may’ve felt at this is negated by your newfound curiosity. Why hadn’t you visited sooner? His counter space is covered with ingredients— vegetables, cheeses, and spices all over the place. On a cutting board rests a tomato, sliced through but unfinished.

You look around, examining the scuffs on the lower cabinets and the collection of colorful bottles on a high shelf. A small notepad is attached to the door of the fridge. It makes you pause because the scrawling note written on it is in your handwriting.

_ Aranea, three large meals a day is TOO MUCH for one cat. Stop that!! _

“You have a cat?” you blurt, turning toward Ignis.

He’s holding the knife, standing in front of the cutting board but unmoving. “Yes, but he’s in another room while I cook.” He slowly puts the knife down. “Was that a guess or a recollection?”

“I just read this note on your fridge.”

“Ah.”

“I sound bossy,” you muse, then walk toward the island counter to put down the album you’re tired of holding. “Was I?”

“Confident would be more accurate, I’d say.” Ignis touches the waist of his apron with uncertainty.

You’re obviously interrupting him, but you don’t feel as guilty about it as you think you should. He’s the one who invited you inside after all.

“I hope it’s okay that I’m here.”

Ignis smiles. “On the contrary, I’m happy you’ve visited. I’m preparing a pot roast I intended to bring to yours later this evening.”

So _ that’s _the amazing smell permeating the place. You’ve been surviving off of instant meals and frozen foods for the past week, so he may as well be cooking you ambrosia.

“Your wife doesn’t care that you’re cooking a whole meal just for me?”

The edges of his mouth pinch, suppressing either a laugh or a frown. You can’t tell which.

“My wife is away. It would be a waste to eat all of this myself.”

Right. That makes more sense than presuming he’s specifically cooking for you.

You look at all of the ingredients again. “Need help?”

Picking up the knife again, he shakes his head. “I’m all right, thank you. Your company is enough.”

You sit on the other side of the island, feet dangling off the barstool, and watch him cook. The sight is familiar despite the change in setting. You’ve seen him go through these motions before at campsites. He’s as smooth as ever, chopping one thing, mixing another.

“How old are you now?” you ask without thinking.

Ignis doesn’t seem to mind. “Thirty five.”

Wow. At least you're not the only one getting old. The fear of aging and the existential crises that come along with it, according to your therapist, are normal for people your age. You don’t know if she meant the twenty six year old you that you felt like or the thirty one year old you whose body you’ve taken over.

Either way, you’re feeling it, and the only comfort is that time waits for no one.

“You look good for thirty five.” It’s supposed to be a compliment, but you read the sudden tenseness in Ignis’ shoulders as soon as the words are out.

“Thank you. I wouldn’t know.”

Feeling awkward, you prop your elbows on the counter and try a different approach. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Ignis, a large bowl in hand, turns about to put it down in front of you. It’s full of salad, a colorful mixture of all he’d just chopped up and crumbled.

“An interview?” He wipes his hand on his apron, then begins to untie it. “Ask me over dinner. Everything’s ready.”

—

Eating becomes the priority once everything is set on Ignis’ dining table. You get halfway through the meal—sweet Astrals, Ignis still has that magic touch—before your mind wanders.

“This table is beautiful.” Not a sentence you ever thought you’d be saying, but the color isn’t like anything you’ve ever seen. The grain of it is threaded through with bits of silver. You swallow a large bite of roast, a finger following along the strange coloring.

“It’s made of Tenebraen Oak.”

Eyes shooting up, you look at Ignis across the table. He’s been quiet since sitting down. “Oh. Fancy.”

“A grove of them grows north of Cape Caem,” he continues. “When my wife and I were visiting, one was felled by a storm. We investigated, and she became enamoured.”

You nod and eye the tabletop again. “She has great taste.”

For some reason, Ignis laughs at that. “Don’t you have questions?”

Right! You wash down a bite with water and ask the first thing that comes to mind.

“What do I do? As your assistant, I mean.”

“Although you accompany me to the more important meetings, you haven’t been my assistant for some time. You're a writer.”

How vague. Knowing for certain you’re not _ exactly _ in the same place as you were five years ago is good news regardless. “What do I write?”

“You’ve written short stories and a biography on Iris.”

That makes you start. “I actually wrote it?”

He nods. “You were working on another biography before the accident. About Noctis.”

“The Prince?”

Another nod, and his smile wanes. “You left some of your things here. I’ll fetch them when we’re finished.”

“Did I spend a lot of time here?”

Ignis seems to think. His eye blinks behind his shades, made visible by the way he tilts his head down toward his plate. “You spent hours keeping Samwise company while I worked. It seemed sensible to do your work here.”

You paused, stabbing a bit of meat with your fork. “Who?”

“Our cat. He’s—” Ignis cut himself off with a small sigh. “He’s rather fond of you.”

That explains the note written on the fridge. So you would catsit for them. Things are making a little more sense, and you’re beginning to feel ease overtake your earlier stress. Mostly. The biggest question remains.

“So…” You push food around on your plate, wishing there was a more tactful way to ask. “Why am I all alone?”

Ignis lifts his head, tilting it and asking, “What do you mean?”

“I live alone.” You think that should clarify all of it, but he still looks confused. “Maybe you don’t understand because you’re married.”

Mouth pinching, Ignis puts his fork down and leans back in his chair. “Is this about Gladio?”

“It’s about _ me, _ Ignis.” You don’t know why he’s frowning like that. How can he expect you to just get over everything when, to you, it feels like it happened overnight? “Letting Gladio in was really difficult, and it didn’t even matter. He’s married to someone else, and apparently all I do is catsit for my neighbor.”

Ignis shakes his head before you’re even finished. “You’re not alone. You have Talcott, Iris—”

“You _ know _ what I mean.”

“If you have a lover, you’ve never told me about it.” Arms crossing over his chest, Ignis frowns harder. “I’m sorry.”

You shrink, looking down at what’s left of your food. If anyone knows about your love life, it would be Ignis. Hearing it directly from him is what you wanted, but you hadn’t accounted for how shitty it would feel.

“How did Gladio and I break up?” It’s the last thing you want to know. Then maybe you’ll be able to let it go. You’ll unload during the next therapy session and see where to move on from there.

“That’s… a question for Gladio.”

Your mouth curls into a grimace. “Because he’s the only one who’ll answer me directly?”

“You don’t want an answer, you want to hurt.” Ignis sighs again. “You’re so fixated on not being alone that you fail to notice what’s around you.”

You send a look up at him, sharp but unseen. “You know me that well, huh?”

“I’ve certainly tried my hand at knowing you.” Ignis’ jaw tightens, then lets loose, followed by softer spoken words. “If you want the truth, you’re a difficult person. You’re both brilliant and infuriating, bent on pushing people away. That about you hasn’t changed.”

The fork in your hand clatters against your plate, and you quickly fix it, eyes fluttering and chest becoming a mangled mess of the worst feelings. You don’t appreciate this assessment, but you don’t know what to say.

Ignis speaks again before you can think of anything. “I— I beg your pardon.” He leans forward in his chair, his arms coming loose. “I mean to say it’s difficult, as your friend, to bear witness to the struggles you force upon yourself.”

You nod, numbing yourself to the half apology thrown your way. “Sure. Don’t worry about it.”

The feet of Ignis’ chair scrape against the hardwood as he pushes it back. The sound grates, apt for the moment.

“I’ll grab your things. Feel free to let Sam out of the spare room.” He picks up his plate, walking to your end of the table to grab yours. “It’s down the hall. Second door on the right.”

—

Samwise is sweet. Then again, you think most cats are. He circles around you, meowing loudly as you bend down to pet him. A twinge of pain pulls at your heart, a soft unrest. You miss Darcy.

By the time Ignis comes into the living room with a box in his arms, you’re sitting on the floor, teasing the cat with quick hand motions. He runs in tight circles, moving from one hand to the other. He catches one when you pause and look up at Ignis.

“Is that my stuff?”

You know it is, but what you can see on the surface of the open box is questionable at best. Ignis, realizing you’re much lower than he probably expected, puts it on the floor next to you. Rather than join you there, he sits on his sofa, head tilted your way.

You lean over the box and eye several colorful balls of yarn. “So I _ do _ knit.”

Taking one out catches the cat’s attention. You realize your mistake and toss it away, letting Samwise chase after it. Among the yarn are knitting needles and what you guess are other… things needed for knitting. You rifle through it, placing things on the floor as you go.

“I can’t remember all that’s in the box,” Ignis says. “But that should be everything you’ve left here.”

You glance up at him, your hands full of yarn. He’s sitting on one end of the couch, his arms crossed. The dinner conversation must’ve put him in an understandably bad mood because he hasn’t smiled since.

That isn’t going to deter you. Beneath the knitting junk is a notebook. No, numerous notebooks. Some are spiral bound and others look like journals. Yes! This! You open one and skim over the page. It… reads like interview notes, messy and incomplete.

_ loved fishing, prompto says important - vesperpool, galdin quay, neeglyss pond (?) _

You flip through it, and the rest of the pages are covered with the same. All speculations about the prince you never met, detailed from accounts that seem to have come directly from Prompto.

Disappointing, but there are other notebooks to look through. You hold out hope and put that one down, digging even deeper. All that’s left is a manila envelope and a laptop. You leave the computer at the box’s bottom and open the envelope.

Oh! Photos.

You ease them out carefully. It’s a short stack, all standard size. Excitement begins to build because finally, _ finally, _ actual proof of your life. The first picture is of you and Prompto. He’s grinning, holding the camera, and his pale arm takes up a quarter of the image. Your hair is long, and your eyes are wide, unprepared.

Flipping through them, you see a shot of Talcott standing proudly in an outfit of all black. Then there’s a picture of Ignis. And another. And another one after that. He’s smiling in all of them, but in a way that suggests he’s becoming impatient. In the fourth one along this theme, you make an appearance at Ignis’ side, poking his face with a finger. You’re both smiling.

Eyes flicking between the picture and the present Ignis, you see such different people. He was the best friend of Future You, not who you are now. This is what he’s missing, what he and everyone else had lost when you— she’d gotten hurt. You put them back into the envelope, deciding you can look at the rest later.

“Thanks for the pictures,” you say, placing things back into the box. “My place doesn’t have any.”

“None at all?”

“Nope.” You shove bundles of yarn over the notebooks. “It gives me the creeps. It looks staged.”

Ignis winces, but it passes so quickly, you barely catch it. “I heard you recently rearranged things.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, Talcott said that. Future Me must’ve been going through a lifestyle cleanse or something.”

Ignis uncrosses his arms but says nothing.

“Um, anyway.” You stare at him, and it really looks like he’s staring back. “I should get going and rest. A team of doctors turned me inside out this morning.”

He sits forward, uncrossing his legs to rest elbows on his knees. “How was therapy?”

The last ball of yarn is held captive by Samwise. You grab the end he isn’t holding and playfully wiggle it in his grip. “Boring. Stressful. It’s…” You sigh softly. “It’s hard being open with a stranger.”

“I’m always here if you need me.”

The response is so automatic, it catches you off guard. “You haven’t visited me since we got here.”

Ignis nods, his frown easing away. “You’re right. I’ve neglected my part in your recovery.”

It’s a weird thing for him to say. Or maybe it’s not? Because you’re his best friend. Or you _ were_? You don’t know how to feel, so your body decides for you. Blooming across your face, reaching down to your chest, you feel warm, like his home and the cat who’s given up on the yarn to rub against your arm.

“I’m not trying to guilt you.”

A light laugh escapes him, making it all even stranger. “Yes you are, but I deserve it.”

He gets up and leaves for another room. You wind the frayed yarn around the ball that Samwise played with, accidentally inciting another bout from him. Ignis returns as you’re shoving the thing into the box before he could do more damage.

“It’s not good for you to play with this for long,” you admonish, holding your arms over the trove of yarn.

“Pardon?” Ignis stands in front of you, a slip of paper in a hand.

Your eyes moving upward, you strain your neck at his height and the awkward angle. “I was talking to Samwise.”

He bends down, a smile coming to his face, and holds out the paper. “This is the passcode to open my door. Should you need someone, visit me. Anytime.”

The cat paws at the paper, and you take it before it tears. “Thanks.”

“Let me wrap up the leftover roast.” Ignis rights himself, walking past you toward the kitchen. “I’ll help you bring everything over to yours.”

He’s gone before you can argue. You look at the paper. _ 0830 _ is scrawled in neat penmanship close to its center. It goes into your pocket. Then, you pet the cat to distract him from the yarn. He purrs loudly, trying to worm his way onto your lap as you come to a stand.

You don’t know if you’ll be visiting Ignis all that often, but he _ does _ have a cute cat. Picking up the box, you carry it to the kitchen. Ignis makes you trade it out for containers of leftovers before leaving and walks on your heel all the way to your apartment.

“This place is a disaster,” he announces a mere two steps inside.

You stop in the entrance hall to look back at him. “How can you tell?”

“Cinnamon doesn’t conceal the smell of dirty dishes and untended rubbish.” He’s smiling, and it’s awful.

“I live in a palace,” you say, hesitant to lead him to the kitchen. “I thought someone would eventually come clean it up.”

It’s not strictly true. You don’t open your door for anyone, so if someone _ had _ come by to clean, you would’ve turned them away. Talcott is the only one you let in, and he’s still ushered out once you’ve reached your limit. A dirty house goes hand in hand with becoming a depressed recluse; that’s hardly your fault.

“Citadel staff won’t know to clean if you don’t notify them.”

You quickly put the leftovers in the fridge and hurry to Ignis, hands grabbing his arms to make him turn around. “Go this way.”

“I’ll have Talcott drop by and tidy up tomorrow.” He lets you direct him to the living room.

“No,” you rush to say, going around him to take hold of the box. “I’ve got it.”

You knock empty cup noodles containers off your coffee table, sliding the box onto the surface. Ignis has a hand hitched on his hip. Such a familiar move. You smile because he’s smiling. The situation is oddly comforting, different from the warmth of his place. It’s warmth coming directly from him.

You’ve done this before.

—

You’re prone, naked and relaxed on a bed. On the sea. Waiting. He’s here, undressing for you. You writhe and want. He makes you watch. The bed goes on forever when he falls into you. Waves crash against the headboard and spill down, down over the creaky floorboards. Is this a ship or the shake of a breath as he enters you? You’re still waiting, feeling the endless depth of him melting into you.

Don’t think about that, you tell him. It’s a repetition, and it grows heavier, hotter.

He doesn't want to make you wait. His touches are grasping, tight, loving apologies. He loves you, and he’s sorry. He’s so sorry.

Waking slowly, you blink and stare blankly ahead. The dream lingers, sour, sexual, and tense. Your head aches, something you’d thought was finally over. You groan and roll out of bed. Time to force a shower. With your head already pounding, it’s not like you’re risking a headache this time.

Hair looking godsawful, medications forced down, and microwaved pot roast for breakfast, you check over the contents of your bag and prepare to leave. You don’t know if the currency is the same as it had been, whether gil had overtaken yen in Insomnia, but the card Talcott had given you early in your return doesn’t seem to have a limit.

Future You must be well off, living in an actual palace and writing for a living. On the surface, it’s the dream. All that’s lacking is a cat and a good sense of taste. Like your apartment as a whole, all of your clothes are utilitarian and plain. New World fashion must be a personally untapped well, and you want to change that now that you’re feeling well enough to do more than sit at home and read.

It takes you more time to locate a store that sells clothes than it does for you to find something nice on the racks. The area you’ve found is lively. It leads you on a hunt for a bookshop, then another store for photo frames. You’re going to clean your place eventually, and when that happens, you’ll put up the pictures and feel significantly more human.

Each store adds another bag to your load. You leave the last place with full arms and a drained battery. And immediately run into someone on the sidewalk.

He lets out a low _ oof _ and catches you at the upper arms before you tumble. When you’re stable, you’re caught off guard by his eyes. The lightest grey, they’re striking in contrast with his dark hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, letting you go. “I should pay attention to where I’m going.”

You shake your head. “That’s— no, it’s my fault.”

He laughs lightly, his gaze falling to the bags in your hands. “Need help to your car or the bus stop? It’s the least I can do.”

Shaking your head again, you tighten your grip on the handles. “I’m good, thanks.”

His eyes trail upward and meet yours. “You like coffee?” He nods toward a cafe across the street. “That place is great. Let me buy you one to make up for being so clumsy.”

You can’t help staring at him. Is he really asking you to have coffee with him? Is your life now a sitcom? He’s nice looking, but he’s a total stranger. Much like everyone else in your life right now.

His smile becomes sheepish, one of his hands coming up to rub at his nape. “Too weird, right? I don’t normally—”

“It’s just a coffee,” you interrupt, thoughts flitting through your mind too quickly for you to keep up. “But I like tea.”

“Great.” His grin returns. “They have it all. I recommend…”

He keeps going, but it’s static noise in your ears. You follow him across the street, confused and flattered and amazed. You decide you’ll roll with it. Ignis did say you were hurting yourself by dwelling on being alone. Just because you’re alone doesn't mean you _ have _ to be.

“Oh,” the man regains your attention as you enter the cafe. “I’m Emen, by the way.”

You give him your name and look at the menu board. This is happening. It’s a small step, but you’re moving forward. Ignis just might be proud of you for taking his words to heart.

—

Emen seemed to think you were blowing him off when you said you didn’t have a phone. Still, he gave you a charming smile along with his number when parting ways. The napkin he wrote it on sits next to Ignis’ passcode on your coffee table. They’re like your little friendship secrets. Tokens to prove that you’re making an effort.

You keep glancing at them, sitting on your couch with piles of yarn around you and knitting needles in your hands. Completely unfolded on top of the yarn at one of your sides is a simple guide for knitting a scarf. It’s crinkled and glossy, one of the many things that had been shoved into the box with the rest of the knitting stuff.

Reading the guide carefully, you copy the drawn figures. Halfway through the first row, it begins to come naturally. Your hands flow as if they’re not your own, stringing on more yarn until one of the needles is covered. It gets easier with the next row. Then, you’re just— you’re just knitting.

The motions are smooth, almost thoughtless. You are much more pleased by this than anticipated. Maybe you should make another sweater. You could give it to Talcott for being so helpful. Or—

A pain hits you, sudden and sharp, at the crown of your head, right where the injury is. You grip hard on the needles, your eyes squeezing shut. Vague images take form in your thoughts, shifting about like a movie seen through layers of grime.

_ “A thousand hobbies can’t replace having a life.” _

The pain expands, blanketing your skull with points of anguish. It’s electric and consuming. You groan and bend forward to rest your head between your knees. The needlework falls to the floor. You hold your head in your hands and endure until it becomes bearable.

No more knitting for now. You take painkillers and try to remember what had come to your mind. The images are impossible to recall, but the words remain. You’d said that. You remember saying that to someone. A thousand hobbies. Do you have a thousand hobbies instead of a life?

Wait.

You slam your glass of water down on the counter, your mouth falling open. You remember something. The experience was terrible, but the pain is already fading into a dull, ignorable throb. You remember something!

Swiping Ignis’ passcode from the coffee table, you shove your feet into your shoes and run down the hallway. You’re polite enough to knock but impolite enough to enter right afterward regardless.

“Ignis?”

To your luck, he’s home. He’s in his living room, sitting on his sofa with a book open in his lap. His hands are splayed on the pages, fingertips moving, and when you walk into the room, they come to a stop.

“Visiting already.” He tilts his head toward you. “Are you all right?”

You open your mouth but lose all of your gumption. Saying you remembered a single, context-less thing you’d once said doesn’t warrant the excitement you arrived with. Your eyes shift between his face and his fingers resting on the open book. You’re bothering him. He asked you to come when you needed to vent, not to share every single thing that happens to you.

He closes the book and speaks up again. “Have you cleaned your place yet?”

Your mouth snaps closed, and the uneasy feeling diminishes. This is Ignis. He’d said _ anytime. _ If this Ignis is anything like the one you remember, he doesn’t like wasting time or saying things without reason.

“Yeah,” you lie. “It’s spotless.”

“What brings you here?” He leans forward to put the book down, and on the lean back, he crosses his legs. “Did you miss me?”

You frown at the tease and take back all of your earlier regret. You _ hope _ you’re bothering him. Ignoring the comment, you drop yourself down into one of his armchairs. “I went shopping today. I bought new clothes.”

“You do look wonderful today.”

Looking down at your t-shirt and the cardigan over it, you blurt, “What? I look the same as—” Gaze shooting over to him, you pout. “Still making the same jokes.”

The smile on his face grows. “I’m not wrong. You’re always b—”

“I went on a date today,” you speak over him, not wanting to hear anymore teasing. This also doubles as news. You should’ve opened with this, but part of you still wonders if you can even call it a date. “I had coffee with a guy I met while I was out.”

“You what?” Ignis’ smile falls. He sits up straighter, his legs uncrossing. “You— a date? With who?”

Oh, you’ve shocked him now. Fantastic. “His name is Emen. I ran into him. Literally.”

Ignis’ brow furrows. “So you agreed to go to a second location with him?”

“He took me across the street.” This isn’t the response you expect. “I thought you’d be happy. I’m letting go and not hurting myself by obsessing.”

He inhales deeply and sits back. “It’s inadvisable to begin a new relationship. You’re still recovering.”

“It’s just coffee.” You want to laugh at how frustrating he’s being. You can’t win with him, apparently. “If it had been ice cream, though, I might have fallen for the guy.”

Ignis’ hands slide down the front of his thighs and rest on his knees. You notice with sudden clarity that he’s gloveless. He isn’t wearing any rings.

“If you need coffee, I have plenty,” he says, bringing your attention back up to his face. “As for ice cream, or anything else for that matter, all you need to do is ask.”

That’s really, _ really _ not the point. You resist the urge to ask if he’ll also be the one to hold you at night or marry you when you’re someday ready to take that plunge. The sarcasm dies on your tongue because he’s right. Emen is a stranger. A nice stranger who’d done nothing but give you a few hours of pleasant conversation from the perspective of a New Insomnia resident.

Ignis’ offer is a big overreaction from a concerned friend, but the gesture leaves you feeling soft rather than bitter.

“You must be really bored without Aranea.” You see him blink behind his visor, his mouth parting to speak. You cut him off before he can vocalize anymore worry. “But hey, I’ll take you up on that. You’ve become magnanimous with age, Ignis.”

He sighs, lifting a hand to push his shades up and pinch the place between his eyes. “You keep speaking as if I’m middle aged.”

A soft laugh spills out of you. Good, he’s letting it go. “Sorry. In my head, I’m still twenty six.”

“Remarkably, I understand.” He adjusts his visor and drops his hand. His tone softens considerably as he goes on. “The mental picture I have of myself is held at twenty two. The last time I saw my own face was in a reflection on the waters of Altissia.”

Chewing on your inner cheek, you digest that sudden, weighty statement. The ensuing silence compels you to speak, if only to break it.

“The last time I felt like myself, I was with you. You listened to me talk while I led you through a forest.” The words hang, horribly, and you regret the impulse to share a truth just because he had first. Clearing your throat, you shake your head. “Uh, anyway, yeah.”

Ignis startles you with a chuckle. It rumbles out of him in a mellow timbre as he sits forward and reaches for the book he’d been reading. “Did you have any other reasons for visiting?”

The hard subject change bewilders you further, not that you aren’t thankful for it. It reminds you of something you meant to bring up earlier. “Did my laptop have a charger? I didn’t find one in the box.”

He shakes his head. “I never came across one, but you’re free to look for it.” With that, he cracks open the book, dismissing you completely.

Welcoming the opportunity for escape, you hop up and walk toward the hallway. Because he didn’t specify exactly _ where _ you should look, you open every door. The first is a closet. Linens, random tools, a gigantic package of toilet paper, and an innumerable amount of other things fill the space. You move stuff around slightly but find nothing.

The next door is the spare room you’d freed Samwise from before. He’s asleep on the foot of the bed, unperturbed by your entrance. You search the room, checking behind a bookshelf that’s hideously empty. The closet is, too. Ignis and Aranea must not get many visitors.

You spot a cord under the bed that gets your hopes up, but following it leads you to a lamp. On your way out, you pet the cat. He stirs and buries his face in your hand. It’s… very cute. You’re stuck for a moment, not wanting to let him go. Astrals, you need to get a cat, like, as soon as possible.

The third room is a bathroom. You skip it for the last door and step into a much larger bedroom. Hesitance stops you from walking further. Ignis’ bedroom is probably, definitely off limits. With a look over your shoulder, you scan the empty hallway. Ignis is reading; he never has to know. If you don’t see a charger, you’ll leave. Simple and only _ a little _ invasive.

You walk toward a desk first, your eyes flitting over the clutter and papers. If anywhere, this would be the place to look. Opening the top drawer, you pause at the jingle of things moving about the cramped space. Among the pens and paper clips, a golden ring stands out in the amalgam of office supplies. Curious, you pick it up. It’s ordinary and unadorned. Meant for someone with fingers larger than yours. You notice another ring in the drawer when you place it down. The second one is inlaid with what you assume is a diamond, obviously a wedding ring.

More uncomfortable than ever, you close the drawer. Ignis’ voice carries down the hallway, calling your name. You leave the room and pretend you hadn’t seen Ignis’ ostensible marriage troubles. All you can do is assume. Why else would Aranea leave her ring hidden at home like that? And he’s not wearing his own either.

You force the speculation out of your thoughts. It’s none of your business. You have enough problems of your own.

“I couldn’t find it,” you announce as soon as you come back in. “And your closet is a disaster, you hypocrite.”

Ignis smiles up at you. “Blame my wife. She organized it before she left.”

That he’s able to be so warm in reference to Aranea surprises you. He’s expressed none of the grief expected of a man whose wife has been out of town for a long period of time. The only hint you’ve gotten, you now realize, is the fact that he never calls her by name. He’s keeping it all to himself. Of course your friends have their own issues. You just hadn’t seen past yourself until now.

“Hey, Ignis, thanks.” You step his way and touch his shoulder to give it a squeeze. “Thanks for dealing with me.”

One of his hands comes up to touch yours, but you’re already letting go.

“I’m going now.” You grin at the look that comes to his face. Confusion, you think. “I’ll knit you something, okay? Look forward to it.”

He frowns, and his tone is wary. “All right. Take care.”

You have an unprecedented burst of energy when returning to your apartment. You kick off your shoes and make yourself clean.

—

It’s time.

You dump the cheap frames onto the floor and sit down with the manila envelope in hand. Now that everything is clean—overlooking the clock that says it's past three in the morning—it’s time for you to make this place feel like home.

Seeing the photos again makes you grin. Prompto is still so painfully dorky, as evidenced by each shot he’s in. You envy the long hair you had in every image. There aren’t enough frames, so you shuffle through them to choose the best.

An immediate personal favorite is a shot of Iris flexing her biceps with Gladio pretending to be amazed. Or maybe he isn’t pretending. Iris is strong, and Gladio is just… like that. Supportive and good. It doesn’t hurt as much as you anticipate to put the photo on the _ yes _ pile.

Your stomach drops, fast and sure, at the next photo. Ignis is facing the camera, his mouth slightly open. He’s not wearing any glasses, and his open eye is wide. You’re leaning up, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other cupped against his jaw.

You’re kissing his cheek.

Your first thought is that it’s innocent. By all accounts, it looks like a joke. But what if it isn’t? What if you’re the reason Aranea has been gone? Ignis has their rings tucked away because you got too close to each other. You ruined their marriage.

He did say he’s tried his hand at _ knowing _ you. Did he mean _ sex_? Aranea is away, and your stuff was inexplicably at his house. Were you having an affair with Ignis before the accident?

Unable to deal with this, you put the picture down and look at the next one. It stops you as abruptly as the other one had. Talcott is centered in the shot, red faced and eyes closed. In a similar pose as the last one, you’re kissing his cheek.

Your mind lulls. What is this? The next picture features all three of you, Ignis and Talcott waving at your sides. Smiles all around. Mystified, you turn it over in your hands and see smudged writing on the back. _The best boys_ in your handwriting.

So it really was just a joke. Picking up the picture of you kissing Ignis, you begin to laugh. It’s full and loud, and you don’t care if it wakes Ignis up next door. Tears begin to burn at the corners of your eyes. An affair? Absurd. You’re exhausted and letting your overactive imagination take control.

Still, you put it on the _ yes _ pile. You can’t wait for Talcott to see it the next time he visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao clever but clueless characters are the most fun to write. Please point out/forgive any issues or inconsistencies you may spot. I’m not as thorough as I wish I could be.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	5. Someone's come to take your place, but it's you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just a crush, you swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all of the kudos and comments! You guys are brilliant and loquacious about this fandom (or at least the characters), and that showed in your beautiful comments. So really, thank you!!
> 
> **Warning** for an unpleasant reveal.

**M.E. 764**

You woke up feeling bleary and nauseated, stumbling in your rush to the bathroom. Your body ached from over drinking, expelling everything in painful, intermittent wretches that you wished, after twenty minutes, would just _ end already. _ You couldn’t remember your last hangover, but this feeling alone was enough to keep you away from alcohol for good.

That’s what you kept repeating in your head, anyway, pressed against the porcelain of the filthiest object in your house. The pain of it made you want to curl up and waste away into nothing. The desire for everything to be over, not just the puking but your life as a whole, hadn’t been this overwhelming in so long, you’d almost forgotten what it was like.

You hadn’t felt this way since you’d begun to work for Ignis.

You grimaced at the thought of your boss, then wiped at your mouth with shaky fingers and made yourself come to a stand. Laying on the toilet wishing for death all morning wasn’t going to change the fact that you’d messed up. You didn’t want to see Ignis. You didn’t want to _ think _ about Ignis. You didn’t want Ignis to perceive your _ existence _ right now.

Going downstairs, you thought back to what had happened the night before and slapped your forehead with the palm of your hand. You couldn’t _ believe— _ What was _ wrong _ with you?

Seeing Ignis’ shades on your coffee table added to your terrible mood. You made tea to avoid the area and calm your troubled stomach. While it steeped, you paced a circle in your kitchen and wondered how you’d become such a glorious fuckup.

You were fired. You were _ definitely _ fired. That time you’d thought Ignis would let you go because you’d had a disagreement? That had been nothing. This, on the other hand, was a nightmare of your own making. He was going to terminate you. Possibly in a literal sense. You’d trained with him enough to know it was entirely probable. He was going to fire you, and you deserved it. Even if you didn’t remember most of the details.

He hadn’t kissed back, that much you knew for sure.

You resisted the urge to hit your forehead again. You’d already done it enough while pacing to smack all of your worry wrinkles away. Next, you’d be breaking flesh, your skull, and what then— your brains? If you had any.

You covered your face with your hands and groaned, spreading your fingers to look at your phone as it vibrated against the counter. A sharp feeling hit you in the gut at the immediate thought that followed. Was it Gladio? _ Gladio. _ The sharp feeling twisted and sank along with your stomach to your feet. You let go of your face to unlock your phone and get it over with, feeling no better at seeing Iris’ name in your inbox instead.

** _Iris:_ ** _ Come over to the safehouse. Iggy’s making breakfast for everyone. _

Clearly, he hadn’t said anything to her. You put the phone down without answering, trading it out for the mug of tea. He was probably waiting for you to confess to it yourself. Or he was cooking a meal for her to soften the blow.

_ I’m sorry to tell you, Iris, but your brother’s girlfriend is a tramp. She came onto me last night, accosted my person, and I’m going to fire her as soon as I can stomach seeing her again. _

Your thoughts spiralled like this for the rest of the morning. Darcy followed you around the place, mewing at first for attention, then in confusion at your apparent restlessness.

“I didn’t think I was this kind of person,” you said, curling up on your couch pathetically. “I like Gladio. Why did I do that?” You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Darcy jumped up, landing on your chest and stepping on your face. You blew her fur away from your mouth while she settled right there on your neck. You wallowed there, your place silent but for her purring against you.

Plenty of time had passed. Breakfast was surely over by now. Had Ignis told anyone or not?

“I can’t take it anymore.”

You reached for your phone with every intention of calling Ignis. You were going to be straight forward, apologize for what you’d done, and ask if you were fired. There was no other way to handle it. You paused at a sudden vibration, seeing his name on your screen. Ignis was calling first. Right now.

You moved your tongue around your mouth, trying to dredge up moisture for the nervous swallow that threatened to hit. Your thumb lingered over the _ answer _ icon, and when you pressed down, you decided you _ weren’t _ ready, actually.

“Hello morning,” you blurted, quickly covering your eyes with a hand.

Silence, then a soft inhale. “Morning. Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, but it’s fine,” you lied. Dread burrowed itself deeper into your stomach.

“Listen.” Ignis was using that tone, the one that meant he was going to get right to the point. That _ don’t dally in camp _ voice he would use for Prompto. “I want to apologize.”

Wait… what? Suddenly sitting up, Darcy leaping across the couch to get away, you asked, “Why?”

“Iris informed me I was to get you home last evening.” He took another breath before continuing. “I don’t recall leaving the bar or returning to the safehouse. Did you make it home safely?”

“Yeah,” you said faintly, processing this with growing confusion. “I’m okay, just hungover.”

“As am I.” He sighed. “I’m not one to imbibe often. I hope I wasn’t a burden.”

“No,” you rushed to say. “No, you— I don’t remember either.”

“Perhaps that’s fortunate. I cannot imagine we were at our best, however fun it had been.”

“Right.”

A delay, followed by the distant sound of him clearing his throat away from the phone—he must’ve been suffering dry mouth, too—and Ignis was himself again. He was your boss again, and you weren’t in danger of being destroyed.

“Let’s rest, per usual. I have things to tend to. Meet me for training in a week’s time. Until then, your time is your own.”

He ended the call without ceremony. You felt guilty afterward, staring dolefully at your phone as if you could take back the past five minutes and be honest just by looking at it for long enough. He’d been too drunk to remember the kiss, which only served to add to your guilt. Had you taken advantage of his kindness and momentary inhibition?

Gritting your teeth, you tapped the screen to unlock your phone. You had to tell Ignis what you’d done; if he’d kissed _ you, _ you’d want to know. The blurry picture of Gladio you’d made your background sent another spike of shame right into your gut. He was grinning over one of your books in his hands.

No. No, you couldn’t. Sinking into yourself, you wished there was a type of tea to soothe this kind of ache.

—

You were the luckiest unlucky person.

The first day of training quickly answered all of the remaining questions that boiled in your anxiety-filled mind. Ignis had taken his glasses back from you with a small apology— _ how careless of me to leave them behind. _ He really didn’t remember anything. There was no awkward tension, no hints that you should distance yourself, no _ anything. _ So you kept pretending you didn’t remember, either.

Your knuckles ached, covered in scratches that matched the shallow cuts along your arms from rolling across uneven concrete. Ignis was as unforgiving in combat as ever. A month into the new stretch of training, and he was beginning to do things that were deserving of rolled eyes and grimaces. As if he weren’t training or fighting you but putting on some kind of acrobatics show.

“I’m starting to think you used to be in the circus and not the Crownsguard,” you said, fighting with the cap of a water bottle. Ignis only gave you a short breather, and you had to make the most of it before he pointed a dagger at you with an apparent intent to maim.

He leaned back against what remained of a chain link fence, wiping at his forehead with his forearm. “I walked a tightrope once. Closest I’ve gotten, I’m afraid.”

You emptied your water bottle and closed your eyes, tipping your head back. Yeah, right. He wasn’t even being humble by saying that. You could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Begin packing tomorrow,” he suddenly said. “Training ends today.”

Eyes shooting open, you peered across the dim lot. How very sudden. “Thank gods.”

“Don’t sound _ so _ eager to be done.”

“You haven’t had a grown man doing aerial spins at you like some sort of human hurricane every day this month.” The bottle crinkled in your hands. You hadn’t ever actually seen him fight while out in the field. Encounters with danger were always shrouded in darkness or had your attention otherwise occupied on sheer self preservation. “I don’t know what I’ll do when you start throwing fireballs at me.”

Ignis tilted his head, his arms crossing over his chest. His lean remained casual, but you could read confusion in his arched brow even from your distance. “Don’t think yourself capable of handling a bit of heat?”

You scoffed. A bit of heat. What an understatement. The magic he used was unlike that of the glaives you’d met in the past. Even passively, it was much stronger and completely mystifying. The things you’d witnessed Ignis and Prompto do with mundane objects were miraculous. They could douse themselves in an energy drink and continue fighting as if it had mended strained muscles and cured them of fatigue. You’d long since stopped trying to understand.

“I might have to quit if you start doing that,” you finally said. “The bruises I can live with, but I don’t want to be electrocuted or have my hair singed off.”

Ignis hummed, an acknowledgement and a dismissal in one. You fought a groan as you came to a stand. He was done wasting time, pushing off the fence with the usual roll of his shoulders. On his walk to the center of the empty space, he frowned. You met him there, peering up at him in the dim light.

“The magic isn’t my own,” he said, tilting his head down just enough to appear as if he were looking at you. “It’s in limited supply, and I’m unable to gather it myself.”

You’d seen him roam around a few of the deposits before. He’d make a wide circle around an electrified bit of stone jutting out of the ground. You would watch him from camp, watch him think and think until he gave up. You hadn’t realized that’s what had been going on.

“So… you need prince Noctis to get it for you?”

His frown deepened. “Yes.”

But the prince wasn’t here. He never would be. He was most likely long dead somewhere, you thought. Which meant all the combat-based magic you’d seen so far had been gathered years ago by the prince himself. Ignis deserved an award for not using it all up by now.

“Wouldn’t want to waste that on me,” you said, hoping to make light of it. You hadn’t meant to bring up the prince. Ignis always became a little impatient and closed off when the topic came up. That was the last thing you needed when training.

Although his frown was severe, he spoke plainly and patiently. “I would never use it against you or any of our allies. Remember that.”

You nodded, only to clear your throat and say, “Got it.”

So it was a spoken lesson rather than one ingrained in you through practice. Like the _ don’t waste time _ and _ stay out of the way during fights _ lessons he’d given early on. Meant to be said just once and followed without complications.

You had a split second to react when daggers manifested in his hands. Evading his first lunge, you wished all of his lessons were as simply put and painless.

—

This expedition was going to be different. You were stronger and wiser. You’d climbed most of Mount Ravatogh, survived a concussion in the Myrlwood, and made it through Costlemark Tower alive. You’d even, by sheer miracle, gotten out of the worst mistake you’d made in recent memory. Unscathed and with your job intact.

You were going to finesse this trip and detail everything in the tomb perfectly. Dedication was your new middle name, and none of this new motivation, you swore to yourself, was driven by the fact that Ignis had told you, the night before setting out, that you’d be accompanied by someone new from now on.

Nearly equal to you in height, the newcomer was, at best, a teenager. You approached him with no small amount of confusion while Ignis spoke with the supply runner whose truck you were borrowing.

You gave the kid your name, assuming Ignis hadn’t told him since he certainly hadn’t told _ you _ anything.

Eyes alight, the boy smiled. “Talcott Hester. Ready to go.”

He held out a hand, and because he seemed so unabashedly genuine, you took it. His grip was firm, but it did nothing to quell the doubt you felt.

“Can you fight?” You never thought you’d be asking someone else this, being the least qualified person to have left the safety of Lestallum in the past.

He nodded emphatically. “Iris has been training me. And Cor.” He faltered, his smile becoming sheepish. “Just once, though. Mostly Iris.”

You couldn’t help smiling back. Cor was a vague shape in your mind, someone only mentioned in passing within the few crowds you seldom let yourself near while out in Lestallum. Iris, though, was a known force. “If that’s true, you’re probably stronger than I am.”

Talcott shook his head, taking what you said with unexpected seriousness. “I have a lot to learn, but I promise you’ll be safe with me.”

You held back a laugh at the declaration, letting it rumble quietly in your chest. He was adorable, but you weren’t sure what made Ignis think it was okay to bring him with you.

“Iris gave me pointers,” Talcott went on once he seemed to realize you weren’t going to say anything more. “She’s been through Malmalam Thicket before.”

He pulled a wrinkled map from a pocket and began to unfold it. You sidled next to him, curious as he pointed out the landscape of the Thicket. He excitedly showed you where a haven was not far from the road there.

The unsettled, threatened feeling you’d arrived with began to wane. Not because he was just an eager kid. You looked over the map toward Ignis, who was giving Fern his best, most diplomatic _ nothing will harm your truck, trust us _ approach.

You trusted Ignis. If Talcott was here, there was a good reason for it.

—

You were eating your words, trudging through the forest in a pouring rain that hadn’t lightened an iota since you’d climbed into the truck outside of Lestallum. As if the squish of the socks in your boots weren’t enough to make you regret getting your hopes up for a perfect trip, you’d quickly realized when Ignis’ timer went off that you’d forgotten to stop by that lab he’d mentioned to pick up antitoxin capsules before leaving.

Pretending to take one while Ignis and Talcott swallowed their own pills was mortifying in a private, self deprecating sort of way. Discouraged, you kept to the head of the walk and said very little to Talcott’s inquisitive observations. Had you been like this in the beginning? Ignis would occasionally hum or ask a question that would spur another bout of speculation from Talcott. It was a familiar back and forth, but it felt hollow not being an active participant.

You endured it silently, putting up the tent with Talcott while Ignis forced the birth of a campfire in the slowly dwindling rain. You were grateful for the extra pair of hands, especially when he helped you string Fern’s tarp over the haven. But the boy’s nearly constant insight meant you didn’t have to do most of the talking anymore. Which was sort of your whole job. You buried that thought deep, fully aware that it was the fatigue from a day of travel getting to you.

The plan had been to go further, to actually step foot into the Thicket to the next haven on Talcott’s map. With the rain, Ignis had called it here, despite how it was finally letting up. By the time he successfully had a fire started, you were wringing out your hair on the edge of camp and sending broad looks into the darkness. The forest was thick here, different from most of the places you’d been so far in how it muted some of the ambient daemonic noise. The light rain hitting the trees was an appreciated change in the norm.

Turning your back on the darkness, you paused when seeing Ignis take off his jacket. He placed it on one of the chairs Talcott had unfolded. Deft hands worked at the buttons of his cuffs, loosening wet sleeves. You walked closer to the campfire. For warmth. Not to get a closer look at how tightly Ignis’ white shirt hugged him while wet.

The notion that he probably wore undershirts beneath his button ups was dashed by the realization that you couldn’t possibly see the contour of his chest that clearly if he had a layer underneath. Cuffs and collar open and loose, Ignis finished the adjugements by hooking thumbs into his suspenders and letting them fall free to his sides.

“Um, miss?”

You startled at the sudden voice. Eyes swiftly moving away from Ignis, face beginning to burn, you sent Talcott an encouraging look. “Are you cold? We should get changed.”

For a moment, he flustered, looking down at his wet clothes. Then he nodded and bent to unlace his boots. “Right, we need to get dry.”

You did the same, sitting directly on the rocky floor. If it were only you and Ignis, you could’ve gotten as nude as you wanted without anyone knowing. With another person—what’s worse, a child—in the party, you didn’t have that luxury. Given what you’d just caught yourself doing, this was for the best.

There was something very, very wrong with you. A misdirected need for Gladio, you decided. You didn’t want to think you were this terrible of a person, wavering at the sight of a few wet muscles. Genuine connection aside, your relationship with Ignis as both his employee and friend wasn’t something you were mentally equipped to deal with right now.

So you focused on getting out of your wet clothes.

Talcott faced away from you, and once your bare feet hit the ground, you stood to give him the same courtesy. Only when you heard the flaps of the tent a moment later did you realize he was hiding himself completely while changing. Even better.

“Let me know if your spare clothes are wet,” you called across the camp, bending to dig through your pack. “Mine are all dry, and we’re about the same size.”

Ignis hummed, catching your attention as you pulled a shirt over your mostly dry bra. You would’ve felt shy if you hadn’t secretly changed in front of him plenty of times before.

“The same size as a teenage boy,” he said, freeing his own feet from his red soled shoes. “Now I have an idea of your appearance.”

You laughed breathily, checking over your shoulder to make sure Talcott was still in the tent. “If you want a better picture, I have freakishly long arms that hang down to my knees. Oh, and a bulbous nose.”

“That’s why your voice has that distinct, nasal quality.”

Another laugh, this one louder, spilled out of you. In a bend to put on your pants, you stumbled when looking over to Ignis. He slid his arms out of his shirt, tossing it on top of his jacket. Like Talcott, he’d faced away from you. The unnecessary gesture brought on that faint bloom of affection you’d felt more often recently. The defined muscle of his back was striking in the firelight, heightening your awareness of that feeling. You forced your stare downward, shoving your legs into your pants, one foot at a time.

“And I’m bald.”

Ignis chuckled, and it took everything you had not to look his way again. “That simply can’t be true.”

Again, you stumbled. “Oh yeah?”

“Tossing and turning the way you do in your sleep.” He spoke so casually and calmly, but your heart was beginning to beat harder. “Every time we share a tent, I prepare myself for being whipped in the face.”

“That’s my long beard,” you were quick to say, biting your lip afterward to keep from laughing again. “I, um—” You cleared your throat and buttoned your pants, finally appropriate for the world. “I keep it braided so it doesn’t get tangled.”

Although you were done, you stayed in place, skimming the darkness with a muted grin. By the sound of things, Ignis was still changing. Gathering your wet clothes into a wad between your hands, you waited.

Ignis hummed thoughtfully. “Gladio always had a peculiar taste in partners.”

Gaze falling down to your hands, your grin waned. The warmth you felt dissipated, replaced by a lurching weight in your stomach. You let the conversation drop and looked for a place to hang your clothes. Giving up and putting them on a chair like Ignis had, you poked at the campfire.

Moments later, Ignis moved around the camp fluidly, setting up the cooking equipment. He hadn’t brought it with you for the last several trips, and you were silently thanking the gods he had this time. You didn’t know how his sushi was, but no meal from Ignis was a bad one. And you’d missed them immensely in your month of cup noodle dinners.

With that on your mind, you checked your phone for anything from Gladio. Nothing. It was always nothing. Sinking into the camping chair with your wet clothes at its back, you passed a bit of time scrolling through all of your messages with him. There were so few. You fed the hollow ache in your chest, aided by the sound of the light rain dripping through the trees.

The prolonged silence from the tent began to make you worry when Ignis finished cooking the entire meal without a word from Talcott. Smacking one of the entrance flaps, you bent to poke your head in. Cheek resting against the map laid flat on the tent floor, Talcott was sound asleep. A pencil was loosely pinched between his fingers.

You climbed in to take it from him and turn off the lantern he’d been using. After saving the map from his drool, you threw one of the sleeping bags over him. There. You were a bad girlfriend, but you were an okay adult.

His wet clothes were heavy in your hands when you climbed out. You put them on top of your own, giving up on trying to dry anything. “Talcott fell asleep.”

All Ignis did was hum an acknowledgement.

You ate together in silence. It weighed on you heavily, the prolonged quiet that had followed you all day. The rain had brought gloom in force. Being stuck with only your thoughts hadn’t felt so suffocating before.

“Talcott’s sweet,” you said, hoping for _ some _ kind of conversation. “Seems close to Iris.”

Ignis, mercifully, bit. “Practically raised one another. He’s the grandson of their late butler.”

“Her family had a butler?”

“Of course.” Ignis uncrossed his legs and came to a stand with his empty plate. “The Amicitias were esteemed as protectors of the crown. I’m surprised you haven’t discussed this with Gladio.”

“I’ll bring it up next time he calls,” you said dryly, getting up after him. You’d known Gladio was some kind of nobility back then, back there. That had been part of what made his attention so… exciting. The King’s Shield had walked into a bar, and he’d noticed _ you. _ Now, you couldn’t recall the feeling. “Assuming he _ does _ call and doesn’t hang up on me first.”

Ignis took your plate, frowning in your direction. “Be patient with him. He’s away to help others.”

You sighed and ran your hands down your face. “I know, I _ know. _ That doesn’t make it easier.”

Ignis left the plates on the prep table and faced you. “You’re the first thing he asks about when he calls me.”

You hated hearing that. Really, it was the worst thing he could possibly have said. Lips curling in a grimace, you closed your eyes tightly. It did nothing to lessen the growing hollowness in your chest. “I’m not _ happy, _ Ignis.”

The admittance didn’t make you feel better. The truth was supposed to be freeing, but all you’d done was draw back the curtain on just _ what _ that heavy weight was on your mind.

A touch, tentative on your upper arms, startled you into opening your eyes. Ignis leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you, his hands pressing firmly at your shoulder blades. Your nose squished uncomfortably against his hard chest, so you moved your head, your cheek resting there instead.

He didn’t say anything. Not when you slowly lifted your arms at the elbow to hug him back. Not when the rain picked up again. And not when, worst of all, you began to cry.

—

You took the lead the next morning, wiping your lantern clean and checking over Talcott’s map after breakfast. The rain remained steady, warranting the raincoat you were glad you’d packed. After Costlemark, you wanted to be prepared for anything. If not mentally, then any other way would have to suffice.

Talcott gave you the cutest salute when you looked him over before leaving camp. He’d brought a poncho that swallowed him whole, ballooning out below the bag strapped to his back. The only one who seemed ill-prepared was Ignis, but you’d seen him trudge through all sorts of terrain in his suit. Prompto had said it was special Crownsguard attire.

Probably waterproof or bulletproof or daemon-proof— whatever.

You weren’t going to waste time thinking about it. Just looking at Ignis made you think of how embarrassing you’d behaved the night before. Crying in front of him for the _ second _ time was almost worse than kissing him. Almost.

Thankfully, he hadn’t said anything about it. And you felt better after letting it out. Not good, but close.

As you followed the fairly straight forward gravel path uphill, Talcott took an audible breath and sighed. You’d only been walking for half an hour. Was he like Prompto, then? Impatient for progress with a distaste for hiking? You had to admit you were curious about your new, young companion.

“I love the smell of rain,” he said simply.

Oh. Interesting. Not like Prompto at all.

“Petrichor.” You liked the smell, too, and inhaled deeply with a growing smile. “It’s the earth and rocks thanking the sky for the rainfall.”

“A rather poetic explanation,” Ignis said, clearly amused some distance behind you. “Is the word so large, you’re uncertain of it?”

You faked a scoff. “Some plants manifest a certain oil during dry periods that gets released when it rains. That’s where the smell comes from, the plants and dirt.” You were pretty sure that was the gist of it, anyway. “We must be coming through during a rare rainy period.”

Talcott voiced quiet understanding, then asked, “Are you a scientist like Sania?”

You didn’t know who Sania was, but the question nearly made you laugh. “No. Just a bartender turned tourguide.”

“She’s an archeologist,” Ignis said, raising his voice over the rain to dispute you. “And a storyteller.”

Your parents had been the archaeologists. You were just doing what they couldn’t. Slowing in step, you looked over your shoulder, only making out the outline of Ignis from the lamplight coming from his lapel. “Mostly, I’m Iggy’s eyes.”

“Indeed.” He surprised you by agreeing. “Before she arrived, no wall nor closed doorway was safe from the blunt force of my inept perambulation.”

Talcott let out a laugh.

You had to face forward to keep from slipping on wet gravel. “Look who’s using big words now. Do you even know what that means?”

Ignis was quick to fire back, “I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

You bit your lip, fighting a laugh of your own. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction. Another wobbly step on the path begged you to pay more attention. The quiet atmosphere of this particular forest and Ignis’ rare apparent want for conversation had you close to forgetting that daemons were everywhere around you.

An hour out, the path led into a gorge. Between the high cliffs, you slowed down to take in the change in surroundings. Your torchlight skittered over shades of green, mottled by the rain that continued to fall. 

“Remarkable,” you murmured, staring at a large mushroom sprouting from a cliffside. You skimmed its rounded edge with the tips of your fingers. “How is the vegetation still so… lively?”

Ignis didn’t have an answer, but Talcott marveled along with you. Both of you were probably touching plenty of things you shouldn’t. It was increasingly endearing as the hike went on. Talcott wasn’t like any of your other companions. He was like you.

You heard the river before you saw it, following the trail around a corner into a wider space. The river itself didn’t appear broad, but it was loud, headed by a large waterfall sparkling off your combined lamplight. What a pain.

“It sounds deeper than anticipated.” Ignis stopped beside you at the water’s edge. “Most other water sources have dwindled significantly.”

“It’s the heavy rain,” you reasoned, getting no response.

Talcott, who’d been pacing the nearby stretch while Ignis contemplated, poked his head between you. “I don’t see a bridge or way across.”

“Good thinking, Talcott,” Ignis said. “I fear there has never been a means to cross. It was but a stream last I was here.”

You watched the flow, unable to see through the water, even with direct light. There was no way to know how deep it went without checking for yourself. Taking your bag off, you lifted it over your head. “I’m going first.”

Ignis caught you by the elbow before you could take the first step. “That’s unwise.”

You shrugged it off. “It doesn’t look that strong. I won’t get washed away. We can’t stop here, so just wait for me to tell you how deep it gets.”

“There could be any number of dangers under the surface.”

“So you’ve been training me for no reason?”

He frowned but said nothing else. You took a deep breath and tightened your grip on the straps of your bag. The water was freezing, sloshing into your boots on the third step in. Good thing you hadn’t wasted time trying to get them dry. They were going to smell so bad when you got back home. You ruminated on this thought, clenching your teeth at the shocking chill as the rush of water crept higher.

It began to level just below your chest. Four paces beyond that, the ground curved upward and the water slowly lowered. You stopped, arms shaking over your head, to turn around and yell, “It’s good to cross. About four feet high at most.”

Talcott had followed your lead, his bag held high in arms that were locked. Already tense, the poor kid. You didn’t envy this being his first trip. Wobbling on a few of the smooth stones at the riverbed, you turned about to get out as quickly as you could.

Something stood on the other side of the river.

You blinked, your lantern shaking with each uneven step. It was the clear figure of a person. Details were impossible to make out with all the water that had splashed onto your lantern, but you could see the outline of them bending forward. They were reaching out toward you. Waiting.

You stopped abruptly, the river pulling roughly at your knees and calves. Was someone else out here? Resting your pack on your head, you let go of it with one hand to wipe your thumb over the surface of the lantern.

Just like that, the figure was gone.

You blinked again, feeling Talcott bump into your back. He gave out a polite apology that you absentmindedly acknowledged. Back on dry land, you shot quick, wide eyed glances in every direction. Nothing but darkness greeted you. That hadn’t been like any daemon you’d ever seen. It had definitely been a person.

You rubbed your eyes and sighed through a heavy shiver. It was the darkness getting to you. That was all. If anyone else was out here, they would’ve said something, and Ignis would’ve warned you to expect company.

“Are you okay?”

The question startled you. Hands dropping, you sent Talcott a small smile. You weren’t used to someone noticing the small, personal perils that came with these expeditions.

“I’m good. Are you?”

He nodded, his hands tight on the straps of his bag. Looking to Ignis as if it were the natural progression of things, he asked, “Are you, sir?”

From where you stood, Ignis looked relatively unaffected by it all. The water had only reached his waist. He was bent forward, hooking the storage pack back onto his leg. When he righted himself a second later, it was with one of his rare smiles.

“Right as rain. Let’s move forward.”

Heat broke through the chills that coursed over you, first on your face, then in your chest. Ignis wasn’t allowing anything to dampen him today. It made you want to walk at his side so you could talk with him, but all things considered, you remained ahead and let Talcott do that for you.

—

Upriver, past another waterfall, you were landed in an open clearing. Because of your last encounter in a similar location, you were tense the entire walk toward the Tomb of the Pious. It was exactly where Ignis remembered it would be, at the end of this hidden grove. There wasn’t a daemon in sight. Suspicious and fortuitous in equal parts.

You pulled out your recorder, getting right to work. Uncertainty over whether or not you were meant to be the one to direct Talcott was quickly dispelled when Ignis asked him to write down the inscriptions that marked the walls and coffer.

Your boots were heavy, undoubtedly sloshing loudly in the background of your recording. You could already tell this one was going to be difficult to listen to later, what with your shivering and the sudden and persistent thought that Ignis had essentially brought on a second assistant without your input. If he thought paying you was already expensive, how was he going to afford Talcott, too? At best, this broke every child labor law in existence.

At a glance, this tomb looked just like the rest. You lamented this, your voice trailing off the moment you saw something by the entrance. Outside, _ just _ catching the edge of your torchlight, something moved past the open doorway. Another human figure.

You lowered the recorder, your gaze going directly to Ignis. He was listening to Talcott talk on the other side of the tomb, one of his hands touching the shield held by one of the statues cut into the stone wall. Shaking your head, you pocketed the recorder and went to the entrance. It was nothing. You were going to prove it to yourself. And if it wasn’t nothing—you withdrew your dagger from its place against your thigh—it was just a daemon.

A faint recollection of every horror story ever told bid you to rethink this, but stepping through the entrance was no scarier than how it felt every time you left the walls of Lestallum. Wind whipped by and rain sent slanted lines through your surroundings, but nothing else was present. Only darkness and more darkness beyond the beam of your torch.

Your grip on the dagger loosened, and a laugh escaped you. This was ridiculous. The absence of daemons so far was making you paranoid. What was it your mentor had said once? The mind of a writer went wild sometimes. You slid the dagger back into place and headed back into the tomb.

Except you couldn’t.

A broad chest, bare and scarred, blocked you from the entrance. Eyes trailing upward, you froze at the sight of Gladio’s face. He smiled broadly and took a step toward you.

“You and Iggy looked cozy last night.”

Confusion was sharp in your mind, an abrupt pain in your temples. “Gladio? Why— How did you get here?”

He tilted his head, wet strands of his hair sticking to his jaw. “You two gonna raise Talcott together now that I’m gone? Cute.”

Face twisting from the sudden pain, you pushed past him, rushing toward the entrance. Something was wrong. Gladio couldn’t be here. This made no sense. You rushed inside, eyes tearing over the room for Ignis, for an explanation.

Something heavy slammed against your back as you met eyes with Talcott. He stood near the coffer with a pencil and paper in hand. Propelled forcefully into him, you both crashed to the floor. Your wrist caught against the edge of the coffer, the landing knocking the air out of you.

Gasping, blood burning with adrenaline, and crowned in pain, you forced yourself to sit up. Your vision was hazy. Blinking against the dust in the air and the tears building up in your eyes, you saw Ignis first. His eyebrows were arched high over his shades, one of his hands brushing over the coffer.

“Oh dear, quite the little upset.” He stopped to lift his hand and smile. “I do so love to watch your dramatics.”

Shaky legs made it difficult to stand, but you had to stop this. You could figure out what was going on once they stopped whatever this was. You held onto the coffer for stability, close to its head, opposite Ignis at its feet.

Gladio took a step toward him. A deep gash, one that hadn’t been there just moments ago, dripped blood down his arm. “You’ve finally shown yourself.”

You went to him first, hands lifting to push against his chest. “I’m sorry. Please. It’s all my fault. Please don’t.”

Gladio looked down at you, bafflement coloring his features. “Is he manipulating you?”

More tears began to swell. “N-no! It’s all my fault. Ignis hasn’t done anything. Gladio, please.”

“Gladio?” He shook his head, then pushed you away, lunging toward Ignis.

You stumbled back, your feet knocking against something soft on the floor. Looking down, you realized Talcott hadn’t gotten up. Your priorities immediately changed, and you dropped down to check him over. He was breathing, but he was unconscious. Blood smeared half his face, coming from a single gash by his eye. You hoped that’s all there was to worry about.

“Talcott.” You gently slapped his cheek with your good hand, the other hanging limply and painfully in your lap. “Talcott, wake up.”

All at once, you noticed the quiet that followed Gladio and Ignis’ altercation. Only soft swears and deep breaths from Ignis cut the air. You peered toward the foot of the coffer, finding him bent over it, a heavy scowl on his face. Eyes skittering over the rest of the room, you couldn’t see Gladio anywhere.

One thing at a time, you told yourself. This was too much. Too much, too fast.

“Ignis, Talcott is hurt,” you said, hoping the kid’s safety would be more important to him than antagonizing Gladio. Your mind was having a difficult time coping with _ that _ sudden change the most.

Your good hand dug into the depths of your pack, pulling out your simple med kit. This wasn’t the best time or place to patch him up, but you didn’t know what else to do.

Ignis walked your way, his heavy breaths slowly easing into something less alarming. When he spoke, he sounded almost like himself again. “What’s wrong?”

“He won’t wake up.”

He bent town into a squat, and you grabbed his hand, leading it to Talcott’s face. He felt for a pulse, just like you had, then seemed to make a choice. Curling a hand underneath one of Talcott’s arms, he lifted the boy onto his back and stood up.

“We’re going back.”

You wavered, gripping your med kit in hand. “But we—”

“Off we go now.”

You scrambled to follow him, shoving the kit and Talcott’s pencil and notebook into your bag. “What happened? How did Gladio get here? Where did he go?”

“That wasn’t Gladio. Nor was it me.”

You didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. Your head throbbed, beating in time with the intense pain radiating from your wrist. Paranoia continued to eat at you on the way back, every shadow you made with your lamplight taking on silhouettes that threatened to throw you around and confuse you further.

—

Ignis told you while you cleaned and put a bandage over the cut on Talcott’s face. He spoke in lengthy, difficult to digest paragraphs as you used the dim light from the lamp in the tent to check Talcott over for any more injuries. Thankfully there were none that you could tell, but it was a small relief in comparison to everything Ignis had to say.

You hadn’t known things were like this. That there was a Big Bad to be careful of, someone whose traces you were indirectly following. You’d spent all of this time in the darkness locked tightly within your own bubble of distance and aversion, only allowing Gladio—Ignis, just admit it, _ Ignis _—into the deeper part of what you held close.

It was no wonder Ignis and the others thought the prince would actually come back along with the sun someday. All of it sounded like a fairy tale. You’d just experienced a taste of it, and you still found it hard to believe. Silence followed his story of the prince, his friends, the oracle, and a chancellor, who Ignis was convinced was much, much more. Proven by many occurrences like what had happened today.

You remained silent, climbing out of the tent as if to get away from this absurd truth. Was it something other people already knew? Were you _ that _ out of touch with reality, or was all of it something other people scoffed at? The endless darkness had a scientific explanation behind it, but all that had left Ignis were tales akin to the folklore your parents had studied.

No wonder Ignis chose you. He was chasing ghosts, too.

You were still wearing your wet clothes, soaked through again from a second trip through the river, and felt no rush to change into the crusty set from the day before. Delicately taking off your raincoat and kicking off your boots for a modicum of comfort, you noticed something on Ignis’ arm. A cut, much like the one you’d seen on Gladio back in the tomb, oozed blood into the sleeve of his shirt.

“Let me patch up your arm.”

“You should change first. You’re shivering.” He said this but sat next to you anyway.

“I’m fine. I’m close to the campfire.”

You had to go back into the tent for the supplies, and once you were sitting on the ground again, Ignis had taken off his shirt. The firelight cast him in warm tones, deepening the red of the blood smeared around the wound. Your touch was gentle when cleaning it, a difficult thing to accomplish with a trembling hand.

“He was the reason we weren’t met with any opposition on the way.”

There he went. You pursed your lips and kept from pressing the wound harder with the antiseptic. You didn’t want to talk about this right now. You didn’t want to be targeted by a daemonic madman either, but here you were.

It quickly became apparent that Ignis didn’t care for the silence. “Daemons must avoid him. Or did he wish for us to have an easy passage?”

You didn’t think for a moment that wading through a river and hiking through a dank, muted forest was what you’d consider _ easy passage. _

Ignis went on. “His approach toward you seemed to rely on guilt.”

“Guilt toward Gladio,” you finally said, giving in. As if you ever had a choice. “For what I did.”

Ignis tensed under your touch.

If your stomach wasn’t in knots, it would’ve dropped. The kiss seemed trivial now. Your guilt went beyond that.

_ You and Iggy looked cozy last night. _

How many people had ever held you while you cried? How many had that level of your trust? Just one. You had to admit that, at least to yourself. That was the root of the guilt, letting Ignis closer.

The words left your mouth without thought. “You remember, don’t you?”

Ignis tilted his head downward, taking off his glasses to run a hand through his hair. The motion made it hard for you to bandage his arm, and you stopped him, taking a firm grip on his forearm. It was difficult enough doing it with an injured wrist and cold hands.

“I thought it best left unacknowledged,” he finally said.

You held gauze to the cut and began to wrap it, using your good hand for most of it. “I’m so sorry for doing that to you. It was sloppy and unprofessional.”

“You were intoxicated.” He was trying to reason on your behalf. What a friend. He should’ve been wincing from how indelicately you were tending to him, but he was overly cognizant and pointed, like usual.

“No,” you said, setting the final piece of the bandage in place. “I wanted to kiss you.”

Ignis lifted his head, his eyes focusing on your face.

With a swallow, you kept going before he could say anything. “I-I really like Gladio.”

But this was your first relationship. Nothing had prepared you for the possibility of liking someone else at the same time. There was no switch flipped in your brain that ended all of your affection for Gladio just because you were finding Ignis more and more charming. You didn’t know what to do, but you knew acting on any feelings toward Ignis—not that you were certain you had any—was _ not _ the answer.

“I miss him. That’s the reason I wanted to kiss you. So I wouldn’t feel alone. That’s all.” When Ignis didn’t say anything, you tacked on a final, “I’m sorry.”

He let out a long breath. “Let’s put it behind us.”

That left a sour taste in your mouth. You watched Ignis put his shirt back on. He really shouldn’t; it was soaked through. “You don’t want to tell him?”

Fingers making quick work of his buttons, Ignis asked, “That you missed him? I’m sure he knows.”

“That I kissed you.”

To your surprise, a small smile graced his face. “I’d hardly call what happened a kiss. You were fumbling. I feigned ignorance to save you the embarrassment.”

Indignation sprouted, fast and light, conflicting with the heavier feelings in your chest. You tried to shove him, but the moment your hand came into contact with his chest, the pain in your wrist burst and grew. You retracted it with a hiss, holding it tenderly with your opposite hand.

In an instant, he was serious. He stopped smoothing down his damp shirt to reach for you. “Where are you hurt?”

You let him feel your hands, his larger ones mapping over the way you held your wrist. “My wrist is sprained.”

“Not broken?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “It’s sharp, so maybe. I took a few painkillers on the way back, but it—” You winced at the way he lifted your injured hand, completely without warning.

One of his hands left you, reaching about until his fingers met the opened med kit. He sifted through the various bandages and touched the ice pack. Lifting it up, he activated it with a sudden, intense grip and carefully pressed it against your wrist.

You couldn’t help the hiss that left you at the contact. “C-can’t just use some ice magic or something?”

He huffed a soft, almost laugh. “If you wish to die. You’re cold enough.”

The chill of the pack coerced a shiver out of you despite the heat of the campfire. You were still drenched, and reason told you it was time to change clothes.

Ignis lifted his free hand, drawing it over your shoulders. Hugged against his side for warmth, you suddenly felt secure. And reason, it left you.

“She was a doll, made up and sent out the day she turned twenty.” The fire danced oranges and yellows near your feet. You closed your eyes to see it shift behind your lids.

Ignis’ voice hit you in a breath against your temple, warm and close. “Go on.”

A smile came, but you schooled it into a proper flat line. “Fresh on the heel of her lover’s death, she was malleable to her father’s plans.”

“Nothing good, I suspect.”

The smile bloomed against your will, and the pain in your wrist— it finally began to ebb away into numbness. Ignis’ hand remained firmly over the ice pack. You wanted to look at him, but you were comfortable.

“To be the bride of another kingdom’s prince was the least imaginative way she’d thought her life would go.” You leaned into Ignis’ hold, seeking more warmth. “She was stuck on a ship with her chambermaid and her guards and all her fine belongings, sailing right for a fiancé she didn’t know. She counted down the days until their arrival with immense dread.”

“Hm. I’ve heard this one before.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Her ship was intercepted by a pirate queen and her crew who’d heard tell of the engagement. They wanted the treasure of her dowry and belongings. Everyone on board who opposed them was slain.”

The direction he was taking this caught you off guard. So did the utter certainty of his delivery, spoken into your hair. And the affection you felt, sudden and sure, in your chest. You had to think for a moment before continuing.

“The princess was too frightened and weak to fight back. So she hid until the pirate queen found her feigning death below deck.”

Ignis shifted at your side. Thinking he was uncomfortable, you began to lean away. But he stopped you, his arm around you sliding lower to hold you at the waist. You eased against him at the touch.

“What did she do?” he asked, bringing your attention back around. “The pirate queen.”

Your smile returned, uninvited. “I thought you knew this one.”

Ignis tucked your head under his chin. “I like the way you tell it.”

That just meant he’d run out of ideas. But that was okay. You had plenty and wanted to block out reality enough to come up with _ anything _ at this point.

“The pirate queen saw the princess and decided she was looking at the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen in her life.”

The ice pack, wet and melting, slipped slightly on your wrist when he moved his hand, fingers brushing over yours. You caught his hand with your free one and drew it away from the ice. His palm was clammy and cold. You held yours against it, judging the size difference.

Your voice became a whisper. “Desperate to save the princess, the queen takes her pulse.”

Ignis curled his hand over yours, bunching your fingers together in his loose fist.

“Does she ever return it?”

You stopped wiggling your fingers and leaned back to look up at him. The firelight got lost somewhere in his hair, his lips parted and expression curious, as if he really meant it. You couldn’t help the breath of laughter that escaped. What was he talking about?

His hand released yours, and his warmth left you as he came to a stand. You caught the ice pack with your good hand and put it tenderly over your wrist in your lap. “Ignis—”

“You should warm yourself. I’ll check on Talcott while you change.”

He left no room for argument and disappeared into the tent seconds later. You sat in silence for a stretch, but it got to you, the flicker of the campfire and the shadows that danced beyond the blue light of the haven. You stood up, delicate with your hand but clumsy in your step.

Maybe getting got by a villain wouldn’t be the worst way to go, you thought. Maybe Ignis would avenge you.

You laughed at the thought and dug into your bag with your good hand.

You didn’t think about Ignis.

You didn’t think about his pulse at your cheek.

Stolen, so yours would beat twice as fast.

—

You saw it in the market between a sack of beans and a pyramid of cup noodles. The price on it was staggering. Unsurprising, given how expensive the stuff had been before all of this. Still, you considered the case of Ebony with extreme prejudice. It was only six cans, unlikely to last long. But the smile on Ignis’ face would’ve been worth it.

Nope. Nope! You had to stop that.

You walked away from the stall, content with the tea you’d gotten two booths prior. You hated coffee, and you _ really _ hated Ebony. Throwing down your hard earned gil would’ve been such a waste.

Several steps out, you stopped and turned back to reconsider. You had savings, and Ignis had been especially patient with you recently. He’d taken you to a doctor when it turned out your wrist was actually broken. He’d brought you cold medicine when you began to feel sick after the return. A surprise of Ebony was the least you could do to make up for the crying, the coughing, and the— the everything.

As you mulled on the choice, your phone chimed in your pocket. You shifted your bag over the cast to hang it off the elbow of your injured arm and dug the phone out with your other hand, freezing at the sight of Gladio’s name on the screen. Forget the coffee, you told yourself. Forget it and leave. You were done here.

Answering the phone, you walked through the market and made your way home. “Hey.”

The line crackled, but Gladio’s voice came through well enough to make out every word. “I’m coming home.”

What a greeting. You smiled and hoped he could hear it in your voice. “That’s great. I’ve missed you.”

“Aranea estimates another two months. Maybe a couple weeks sooner if we can get through Tenebrae without her lingering or anymore bullshit mishaps.” It was followed by a short silence, then, “I can’t wait to see you.”

You stepped over damp trash, both warmth and dread compounding in your chest. “Neither can I. Be careful.”

Six months of nothing more than _ Wait for me, _ and you still felt a thrill at having caught his eye. It had weakened from your lack of care, but still… Out of everyone, he couldn’t wait to see _ you. _

The call lasted about as long as you expected. He was off before you made it home. Almost there, you slowed to a stop, turned on your heel, and made your way toward a different part of town.

So. Gladio was finally coming back. It made you anxious, but the feeling was accompanied by how happy you were to know he was doing okay. You walked down filthy alleyways, taking a back route, and tried to imagine the first thing you’d say when he got back. The first thing you’d do.

Kiss him, right? Hug him. You’d do that, at least. Was this something partners normally had to think about? None of this, from the beginning, had come naturally. You’d loved being alone with Gladio at home, had relaxed and let yourself exist in that shared space, free of your defenses. Everything else had been a test.

You wanted to pass this one, too.

—

The hunter safehouse was alive with chatter when you came in. You wanted to check on Talcott. It was so late, he was probably resting. The doctor who’d checked him over had said it was just a bump to the head, that kids got into scrapes like this sometimes. Talcott had seemed fine for the past week since returning to Lestallum, but you couldn’t shrug off the guilt of being what had sent him down.

Hand lifted to knock on his door, you were thrown off when the door opened preemptively. Ignis stepped out and walked right into you. With a stumble back, you caught yourself with a grip on his arm, and he came to a stop in front of you.

“Apologies.”

“No, sorry.” You let go of his arm. “I was just about to—”

“You’re here. Good.” He raised a hand, touching your elbow gently. “We should talk.”

He turned you by the loose grip on your arm and let go to lead you down the hallway. Okay, then. This was what you were doing now, you supposed.

“How’s Talcott?”

Ignis stopped at another door, opening it for you to walk in first. “He keeps asking if the scar on his face will make him look tough.”

You stepped into the unfamiliar room with a smile. “What did you tell him?”

Completely ignoring your question, Ignis shut the door and said, “You sound better today. How are you feeling?”

“Good. No more cold.” You rubbed at your chest at the thought of all that coughing you’d done and looked around. Functional was the only word you could use to describe the space. A bed was made neatly on one side, a desk on the other, littered with papers, pens, and your recorder. “It’s strange that you weren’t sick at all after wading through that river.”

“Unrivaled constitution is a Crownsguard secret, I’m afraid,” he said, voice jokingly grave. He crossed the room, his hand touching the back of the chair by the desk tentatively. He turned it about to face the bed. “Please, have a seat. I would offer you a drink if it were possible.”

You looked from the chair to the bed, putting the bag of goods down before sitting on the latter. It creaked under your weight. “You sound like you’re about to give me bad news.”

“Indeed.” He sat down in the chair, crossing one long leg over the other. “I will no longer be training you.”

You stared at him, unblinking. The twitch at the corner of his mouth told you he was fully aware of how good you’d find this news. It didn’t bode well, though. He wasn’t giving up on you, was he?

“Because of my broken wrist?” You touched the plaster cast that encased most of your forearm and hand. “They said it would be better in eight weeks.”

“That’s reason enough to rest, but I’ve nothing more to teach you.” His arms crossed over his broad chest. “From here, your teachers will have to be practical experience and common sense.”

“So we’re resting for a while?”

“Talcott and I are going to venture east, week after next. We’ll be staying in Hammerhead and exploring the nearby locations.”

Your fingers tangled together on your lap. “And me?”

“I need you to stay here and finish all of the translations. Accuracy is imperative to gleaning the most that we can.”

He’d begun to speak that way, prefacing things with _ I need you. _ As if you were doing him big favors and not being told what to do. You didn’t think he needed you at all, and worse, you thought he was beginning to realize that.

“You’re not just replacing me?”

It wasn’t meant to come out because it wasn’t a full thought. You weren’t jealous of Talcott, and you knew how vital all of this background work was for your collected understanding. Especially now that you knew there was someone—some_thing_?—actively working against you.

“It’s not a bad idea.” Ignis gave a little smile. “Talcott doesn’t tend to fret nearly as much.”

A blush warmed your face. Did he really think that? You weren’t sure if he was referencing all the crying you’d done recently or the typical layer of stress you held every time you were out in the darkness. Either way, you didn’t like it.

“Let me go with you. I can stay in Hammerhead and work while you and Talcott visit the tombs. I’ll show him how to annotate with the recorder.”

Ignis shook his head, his smile dissipating. “You shouldn’t leave Lestallum while you’re injured.”

“I’ll be with you. It’ll be fine.”

That wasn’t the right thing to say, apparently. Ignis loosened his arms to take off his visor and slid a gloved hand through his hair. He did this more and more lately, and now you could see it clearly for what it was. Exasperation.

“I can’t always protect you.”

You threw up your hands, a motion that made your injured arm ache. “Which is why you trained me. I’ll be _ fine. _ Let me work.”

“If you’re wounded any further, Gladio won’t forgive me.”

All that did was make you scowl. “I’m not Gladio’s property. Why is his opinion more important to you than my desire to work?”

He uncrossed his legs, his foot hitting the floor with a resounding _ thud. _ The hand carding through his hair fell to his thigh, where it rested, palm down. “Why be difficult?”

“Is that what you think? I say I want to work, I give a reasonable alternative, and _ I’m _ being difficult?” You came to a stand and picked up your bag with your good hand. “I’m going. Have fun in Hammerhead without me.”

A hard breath left him, not a sigh, but something close. “Storming off childishly? Color me surprised.”

You wanted to scream. He was being ridiculous. If this was the bad news he’d been talking about, he was vastly underestimating you. It was infuriating that he thought you’d just accept it and stick back while he replaced you.

“I’ll come back when you consider my ideas seriously again.”

You left him there, glad you hadn’t been stupid enough to buy the Ebony.

—

Days passed, blending into a week, then two, your mood vacillating wildly between irritation and anxiety. You didn’t care if he let you go this time. If Ignis was going to replace you anyway, you didn’t want to keep working with him. It was actually better to break ties. Sticking with Ignis meant you’d keep being targeted by the chancellor, or whatever he was.

No Ignis meant no creepy daemon man.

“Good riddance.” You flipped through another read of your favorite book and looked at your cat for support. She didn’t share the enthusiasm, ignoring you to curl up in an armchair across the living room.

You stewed and pretended you weren’t hurting. You hated this. Each day that passed without a word from Ignis was a sharp reminder that you’d gotten too involved. It left you feeling empty and insecure. A reality you didn’t want to face was how desperate you actually were to see him again. He used to visit nearly every day for work, and now you felt like _ he _ was the lucky one for getting rid of _ you. _

A knock at your door disturbed you halfway through a romantic scene. Not willing to acknowledge it, you let several minutes go by without answering. The second knock was louder, followed by your name, called through the closed door in a familiar voice.

Book falling to your lap, you looked toward the entrance. Ignis? He would’ve left for Hammerhead with Talcott by now. You went to the door with a deep suspicion. Peeking through the little window in your door gave you a good view of what looked like Ignis standing on your stoop and frowning. Had that chancellor come for you now that Ignis was gone? What a joke.

He knocked a third time while you got a knife from the kitchen. You weren’t going to be thrown around this time. You didn’t care if he broke your other wrist and made himself look like the sauciest, bar-going version of your boss, you weren’t going to fall for it.

With a deep breath in and out, you opened the door widely and lifted the knife over your shoulder. “Don’t waste your time. I don’t work for Ignis anymore.”

He opened his mouth, wavering as his brow furrowed over his visor. “What? No. I’m here to apologize.”

You faltered and stood still, waiting for more. For an attack. “Ignis left town, but don’t try to find out where he went, you freak.”

He shook his head, his jaw sharp in the dim overhead light. “I’m right here. Are you being terrorized?”

Slowly, uncertainly, you lowered the knife. “Ignis?”

His head tilted down toward you, a dagger appearing in his hand in a flash of that familiar blue magic. “Are you all right?”

“I thought you left.” You didn’t know what else to say.

He gripped the handle of the dagger tightly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I thought you were him. That guy. The chancellor.” You took a step back. “Come in.”

The dagger disappeared as he walked past, and you found it a comfort. You weren’t sure if you’d just done the equivalent of inviting a vampire into your home. Could the Big Bad fake even Ignis’ magic? The intense pace of your heart at the sight of him overpowered your suspicion, and you probably looked as stupidly interested as Darcy usually did when he visited.

_ Finally! Some good fucking company. _

He lowered a hand like he usually did, toward the seat of his favorite armchair. Darcy woke up, greeting him with much more love than she’d given you recently. So it _ was _ him. She wouldn’t immediately warm up to anyone else like that.

You put the knife on your coffee table and relaxed on the couch with a heavy sigh. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Hammerhead?”

Ignis walked toward you, taking a seat on the other end of the couch. “How are you? How’s your wrist?”

“Answer mine first.”

He sighed. “We decided to wait. When your wrist heals, we will travel east together.”

What? You drew your legs up and shifted over to face him directly. “Why? You said I was being difficult.”

Ignis tilted his head your way with a small frown. “I didn’t want to risk you getting hurt further.”

“Yeah, to avoid Gladio’s wrath,” you said flatly.

Ignis winced, then schooled his expression and shook his head. “I may face that regardless. I don’t want to lose your support. There’s still more research to be done. If you want to join us, we’ll wait.”

You chewed on your inner cheek and stared at him. “Now I _ really _ don’t know if it’s actually you.”

He surprised you with a little smile. “Forgive me, but I’m the only one who knows what you truly look like. Your bald head, big nose, and long beard in all.”

Further startled, you laughed. This was his way of proving himself authentic or was he teasing you in the same breath he’d used to apologize?

You shifted closer to him with a sudden idea. “Take off your gloves. I want to show you something.”

His fingers curled and uncurled. A moment passed and stretched, then he undid the clasps, pulling off his gloves one finger at a time. When his hands were free, you held them in your own, feeling their warmth mingling with your own uncertainty.

“You never answered me,” he spoke quietly. “How is your wrist?”

It was a momentary delay. You were all nerves, answering just as softly, “It’s healing.”

With bated breath, you lifted his hands to your face. His palms covered your cheeks, his fingertips resting at your temples and delving into your hair. He didn’t move them until you let go. One of his thumbs smoothed out to brush over your mouth, an index finger skimming the bridge of your nose.

As daunting as it was to be known by someone, even scarier was the idea of Ignis never knowing. You weren’t just a voice. You weren’t an encyclopedia. You weren’t anything, really. But you were here, and Ignis—

His fingertips followed the curved lines of your eyebrows, your cheekbones, your jaw. Holding your chin in hand, he smoothed a thumb over your lips again, featherlight in his touch.

“I appreciate the gesture,” he said softly. “But it’s unnecessary.”

He lowered his hands, returning them to his lap where he took hold of his gloves.

You deflated. How embarrassing. “Just wanted you to see— no beard.”

His smile grew. “I gathered that much, but I’m afraid I can’t distinguish the subtle features of a person’s face through touch.”

Feeling silly, you laughed, lightly and awkwardly. “Right.”

“If you’ve forgiven me, I should get going.” He stood, tucking his gloves into a trouser pocket. “Fish to catch, daemons to hunt. You understand.”

“Right,” you repeated intelligently.

On the walk to the door, you felt it, the creeping mortification of opening yourself up all for nothing. Of course he wouldn’t be able to ‘see’ you with his hands. That wasn’t how anyone worked, blind or not.

He paused on the lowest step of your stoop and turned around. You expected him to say something about this unexpected change in plans. What came instead threw you off completely.

“You did confirm one of my earlier musings.” He seemed to consider what he said next carefully, his mouth pinching, then easing. “You have remarkably soft lips.”

Then Ignis left you there, just like that.

You closed the door and stood in the entrance hall, the mortification ebbing away for all new, unfamiliar feelings to grow. What a nightmare. Gladio was on his way back, and you hoped seeing him again would rid you of this. You hoped Gladio caught you.

Because you were falling.

* * *

**M.E. 768**

The wound has healed so much, it itches. You graze your fingertips over the stitches delicately, then run your fingers through your hair. It ends abruptly at your shoulders, breaking your heart all over again. Gathering it all together, you tie it back and watch in the mirror as, strand by strand, it comes loose while you brush your teeth.

Future You wasn’t a hat person—at least _ something _ hasn’t changed—so you tuck the flyaway hairs behind your ears and leave your bathroom without lingering on your reflection. Vanity isn’t a luxury you can afford. You grew your hair out once before, and you’ll do it again.

Talcott straightens his posture when you walk into your living room. He hasn’t stopped staring at the photos you put up. They don’t make the place feel as alive as you’d hoped, but your world is significantly less grey with them in the backdrop. You stop next to him to point at a picture.

“Do you remember that?”

Talcott nods. “I loved that day. There were so many baby chocobos.”

You looked from one photo to another. After flipping through them at length, you’d realized you’d taken them all on the same day. It had been sunny. Some sort of celebration, you think.

“Were we at that…” You chew on your lower lip and struggle to finish the thought. The chocobo place, the famous one. You _ know _ this. The name is on the edge of your mind. “That chocobo ranch? In duscae.”

Nice.

Talcott smiles. “Wiz’s Post, yeah.” His eyes shift upward when he looks at you, prompting you to stop almost-but-not-really touching your injury. “Today’s the big day.”

Hearing that brings forth an old image of your parents. There had been numerous Big Days back then. _ Today’s the big day! We’re going to uncover something that’ll change everything. _

Not quite the memories you’re searching for. They leave a bitter taste. The corners of your mouth curl in a grimace that Talcott misreads.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says, his smile disappearing. “When they take the stitches out. Just a weird tugging sensation.”

You have nothing to offer to that and realize you’re touching the injury again when he reaches up to stop you.

“Here.” He takes his hat off by its brim and places it loosely on your head. “That’ll cover it up. I’m not supposed to wear it with my uniform anyway.”

You touch the back of it, adjusting until it's comfortable. “But you always wear it.”

Talcott begins to usher you toward the door. “Ignis has been lenient lately.”

You slip into your shoes, not ready to face the world just yet. “How would he know? It’s not like he can see it.”

Talcott waits by the door, relaxed again. He’s showing far too much familiarity, although you appreciate the hat more than you’ll ever say.

“Trust me, he knows.”

—

You’re amazed at the display of new phone models. The CEO of at least one tech company must’ve survived somewhere. You don’t recognize the brand, but your broken phone matches, so there you are.

You play with the devices and take a blurry selfie with Talcott while you wait. Your phone is unsalvageable, and they’re kind enough to sell you a replacement. At full price. There are some things even the apocalypse can’t rid from the world.

The woman who’d taken your old phone into the back room returns with your new, shiny device much sooner than you expect.

“That’s it?” you ask when she hands you the phone and its box. It’s only been five minutes.

She smiles the same way you used to after years of bartending. Tight and tired. Not a good sign for ten in the morning, but she probably doesn’t need you to point out how she clearly doesn’t like her job.

“There wasn’t much to transfer. Is there anything else I can do?”

You shake your head and back into Talcott. “Thanks.”

In his car, you hold the new phone with both hands. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell he’s ready to. He’s tense, and he’s hiding it poorly by pretending to find a good station on the radio.

Despite what the woman said, you feel the need to prepare yourself. Talcott stops on a pop channel. It hits you with pre-fall electronic beats, and as soon as his hand leaves the radio, yours finds the dial to mute the noise. He doesn’t look surprised, but the tense set to his shoulders only seems to grow. They hitch higher, like he’s protecting himself or preparing for something. It’s both distressing and distracting, and you miss the flustering from before.

“Are you going to look?”

Your head hurts in how quickly you look at him. “Why are you so curious?”

He shrugs and looks away. “I’ve never known someone with amnesia. What if you remember something? It’s exciting.”

That’s not what you’d call it, but sure. Unlocking your new phone, you swipe a thumb through the homepages. A schedule app is tucked away with a shortcut to an online drive in a folder labeled ‘work’. Boring.

Aside from that and a game called Moogle Ball, there isn't anything but generic apps on this thing. The photo album gives you more— shots of yourself with Sania and Gladio. Your hair is short, cut like it is now. The dates are recent, all just two weeks before you’d woken up in the hospital.

Suddenly: answers.

“Who’s that?” You lean across the console toward Talcott. Several of the pictures are of a baby, each one featuring a gap-toothed grin. You’re holding it in your arms, and you look exhausted.

“Clarus,” Talcott says. He finally begins to ease, a smile coming to him as you swipe through more pictures of the kid. “Gladio named him after his father. Clarus was the—”

You feel a wave of nausea and lean back to close your eyes. The injury is healed; you shouldn’t be feeling this anymore. “Gladio?”

The more your stomach roils, the less you can focus. You open your eyes and look at the pictures again. There’s no fighting the feeling. There’s no answer hidden among the mess. Gladio has a son, one who’s big enough to climb you like the pictures suggest. They’re taken in a sunny Lestallum. You recognize the fountain in the background.

“I didn’t want kids anyway.” You interrupt Talcott’s explanation. He freezes and stares at you. This must have been his fear— having to explain that Gladio has a family. The words had come out of you bitterly because you’re nauseous and this _ is _ a surprise, but you don’t think you're selfish enough to resent this, too.

You’d entertained the idea of a family, of children, very briefly after Gladio had left. Obviously that had amounted to nothing. A waste of time, all of it.

Talcott steps in front of your train of thought, pulling the car out of the parking lot. “Let’s get to the doctor’s office.”

You lock your phone and nod. Blinking coerces tears out, wiped away while you keep your gaze pointed out the window. “He seems cute.”

Talcott’s smile is loud in his voice. “He is. You love him.”

You chuckle wetly. “I don’t remember ever telling anyone that freely.”

“Still don’t,” he corrects, either you or himself; you can’t tell. “But you say it to Little C all the time.”

You’re a wry, teary smile, fighting another wretch of nausea, repeating the nickname with amusement. “Do I say it to anyone else?”

You know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth.

“Just me and Ignis.”

_ The best boys, _ you’d written. Right.

“You’re a good auntie, you know.”

It’s so tacked on, so delayed out of him that all you can manage is a snort.

“Okay, Talcott.”

—

The doctor looks too pleased to be removing your stitches. They’re strangely gleeful but careful, and Talcott’s promise about it not being very painful rings true.

“There we are.” They pat the injury with an alcohol-soaked cotton swab. You wince at the sting of it, wishing you could see. You focus on the surgical tray at their side. Their shears sit threateningly next to a huge pair of pincers and other tools you don’t want to be seeing.

“You’ve healed perfectly,” they say, finally stepping back. “I need you to keep this on for the rest of the day.”

Holding up a square of gauze, they unravel a bit of medical tape with a sharp tug. The smile is still plastered on their face as they work. It’s sincere and excited, and you can’t, for the life of you, relate to it.

“Can I wear the hat?” You try to look at Talcott’s Hammerhead hat you’d placed beside you on the exam table.

The doctor stops you with a steady hand at your chin. “So long as you’re careful.”

You pull at the sleeves of your cardigan. They’re stretched already, and you keep yourself from fidgeting to preserve what’s left.

“Any persisting pain?”

“Not pain, but I’m still nauseous sometimes.”

They startle you with a small laugh. “That’ll happen.”

They may be all smiles, but you’re astounded by their horrible bedside manner. After one last firm press against your head, they leave you on the exam table to put away the tools and toss the waste.

“I’ll be right back with your results.”

You slowly put Talcott’s hat on. “Results?”

Their smile broadens, their rubber gloves snapping on the way off. “From the blood test.”

Oh, right. The blood they’d taken on your last visit. Seems your short term memory needs help, too. You nod until they leave. Then you swing your feet and hope this doesn’t take much longer. For Talcott’s sake. The poor guy must be so tired of chauffeuring you around. He never fully relaxed after leaving the tech shop.

You withdraw your phone and open the photo app again to cycle through the images. There are sore edges to seeing Gladio so happy in a situation so foreign, but it’s a backdrop to the questions cropping up in your mind. They know something. Obviously everyone knows a little of something, but Gladio and Sania might have answers you won’t find by barking up Ignis’ tree. That man has enough of his own problems, no matter how available to help he claims to be.

Besides, Glaido and Sania are the last people you were with. Whatever they know, you’re going to get to the bottom of it. You look through the messages next, ready to get a lead on more answers. In a thread with Sania, you made plans for what to bring to the Myrlwood. It’s the most recent, not that there are many to sift through. Only three, actually.

The oldest message sits at the bottom, read but unanswered.

** _Prompto:_ ** _ where are you?? _

Between him and Sania is a thread with Gladio. You stop swaying your legs and look around the examination room, ending at the closed door. No doctor incoming, you open the messages and scroll as far back as you can.

** _Gladio: _ ** _ Iggy said you’re in galdin _

** _You:_ ** _ Yeah, but I can be in Lestallum by Thursday. _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ k _

There’s a two hour gap between that message and the next.

** _Gladio:_ ** _ go back to insomnia _

** _You:_ ** _ I already left. Should be crossing the regional line into Duscae soon. _

** _Gladio:_ ** _ you said thursday _

You’d answered this with a gif. One of those ancient memes that still manages to make you smile. The caption reads ‘IM FINE’

** _You:_ ** _ How’s Clarus? Can’t wait to see him!! _

His response had been a picture of his kid, to which you'd showered with adoration. It lends you to think Talcott wasn’t lying about what he’d said. Maybe you were a good auntie. The thought is disquieting.

The doctor comes back with ceremony. You shove your phone into a pocket of your cardigan, feeling caught, for whatever reason. They’re too busy grinning to notice, a clipboard in one of their hands.

“All right, it’s the moment of truth.”

You shift uncomfortably at the strange wording and wait while they take a seat on their rolling stool.

“This is exciting,” they say, putting the clipboard on their lap. “Not what we were looking for but good news all the same.”

You don’t like this.

"Congratulations. You've been pregnant for..."

They jokingly look at their watch and keep talking, but the world is reduced to static. The doctor brightly speaks of vitamins and future appointments and sonograms—too early for that, they say—and hands you pamphlets. You take them, a battle between numbness and nausea twisting knots into your abdomen. It’s the doctor’s coy look toward the end of their deluge of information that brings you back.

“... tell him yourself.”

The pamphlets crinkle in your hands. “I’m sorry, but you said—” You bite your inner cheek and close your eyes. Nausea is winning.

“Don’t worry, I’ll prescribe something strong for that.” They lead you as far as the door to the waiting room. Your disorientated state is brushed off as _ typical, _ that you _ need time to process, _ especially since you’re _ already struggling. _

To have it all said so plainly gives it a false sense of triviality. You can’t believe they’re smiling about it and watch them retreat, crumpling the pamphlets into your pocket before pushing through the door into the waiting room.

Talcott waves but doesn’t approach until you’ve checked out at the counter, prescription in hand. You fold that and put it with the pamphlets on your way out.

“To celebrate,” Talcott says, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel. “We’re stopping for ice cream on the way back.”

He shoots you a smile. It’s short-lived and falls as soon as his eyes meet yours.

“What’s to celebrate?” Your voice is higher than normal. Why does your throat feel so tight? You’re suffocating.

Talcott’s gaze quickly returns to the road ahead. “Getting the… stitches removed. Um. I thought you wanted ice cream. Last time you said—”

“Sorry.” You can’t listen to this right now. “I’m just— sorry, I’m tired. Ice cream sounds great.”

—

The place he takes you to has outdoor seating. You sit on the grated metal patio furniture, legs stretched out to let the noon sun wash over them. You can feel the warmth through your jeans. Seeing the sun again had been unthinkable once. So had living in the Citadel. So had having… So had…

You look down into your bowl of ice cream and pick at the absurd amount of toppings you put on top. “Talcott.” You get his attention from across the table, shaded by the umbrella overhead. “Do I…” It’s difficult to put into words. “Is there anyone…” With a sigh, you shake your head. “Forget it.”

“It’s going to be okay.” He’d gotten a small cone—after much of your prompting—and it melts a line of mint chocolate chip over his fingers while he talks. “You’ll remember as long as you keep trying. And I’ll help as much as I can.”

You nod, chagrined at his misguided reassurances. Ignis had said Talcott was at your disposal. In those words exactly. “You don’t have to stay by me just because Ignis said so.”

He shakes his head curtly. “That’s exactly why. After all the times you’ve helped _ me, _ I want to.”

You want to believe him. Maybe you do. It’s the genuine look on his face that gets you, followed by the realization that his ice cream is melting. You watch him scramble for a napkin while you play with your food. You want to eat, but your appetite isn’t cooperating.

“What was I like?”

He wipes at the mess, considering something before answering. “That’s too broad.”

Expecting this, you think again and recall a question you'd struggled to answer during your therapy session. “What were the best and worst things I did?” You take the tiniest bite of your ice cream and speak around it. “In your opinion. Be honest.”

Talcott moves the cone from one hand to the other, his expression contemplative. “Sometimes you tell fun stories.” The cone crunches in his curled fingers, and he trades it between his hands again. “But sometimes you undermine Ignis, and that makes it hard for me.”

You’re fascinated by this unexpected answer and latch onto this thread, ready to think about anything else. “Because he’s your boss.”

Talcott nods.

“Is he _ my _ boss?” You push and bury your spoon into the ice cream and leave it there, waiting.

Talcott rubs at the back of his neck, a blush coming forth. Oh, the flustering. It’s better than the tension, but now isn’t the time. “Kinda? I mean, no? I-I can’t answer that.”

“Why not? You just said you’d help me.”

“This isn’t helping.” His eyebrows arch high and meet on his forehead, which looks so bare without his hat. “Please ask Ignis.”

You balk, but it’s guilty. He’s right. There are only so many hints you can handle, each one less subtle than the last. Sitting back, you let it go. You don’t know how to figure out _ who _ you can ask _ what _ yet, but that isn’t Talcott’s fault.

—

The physical therapist—or was it occupational? you’re losing track—hadn’t been impressed with the way you chose to spend your free time. You’d struck a deal with him to try reintegration rather than isolation. So far, all that means is you sometimes follow Ignis around. Nothing new for you there.

This afternoon will be your first stint. You approach Ignis’ door wondering if you should’ve given him more than a day’s notice. He doesn’t answer at your knock. He rarely answers since he’d given you the passcode. If the invitation is really so open…

Entering the code, you stop in the entranceway to take off your shoes. You call out a greeting and hear voices in another room. Neither of them acknowledge your call. Following the sound to Ignis’ living room, you stall at what you see. You’re used to catching him on his sofa with a book. Because you’re shadowing him for the rest of the day, you’d expected something a little more exciting, but not this.

Ignis stands between his coffee table and sofa, his white shirt mottled with damp, beige spots. His hands are on a woman, whose fingers are unfastening the buttons on Ignis’ shirt at a speed that makes you blush. She doesn’t stop until she notices your intrusion, but by then, every button is undone.

“I-I’m so sorry.” You lift a hand to block your view of Ignis’ chest. The blush on your face deepens. “I’ll come back later.”

Ignis’ voice delays you. “No, stay.”

It’s breathy and heavy and uncomfortable. You lower your hand, ready to come up with any excuse to be somewhere else. Ignis lets go of the woman, his hands grasping at his open shirt in a small show of modesty. A touch late for that.

His tone is dismissive, his head tilting toward the woman. “Another time, Sage.”

You recognize her face now that there’s a name with it. The supply runner looks markedly different now, her drab clothing replaced with a short, professional dress that she rushes to smooth down her thighs. She gives you a once over. “You weren’t kidding, Iggy.”

Ignis sighs, and you take another step back through the archway. You need to get out of here. “I’m going—”

Sage lifts a hand and rolls her eyes. “Just stay.” Facing Ignis, she places a hand on one of his forearms. “I’m sorry. If you need a shoulder…” She squeezes before letting go and leaves in a wake of coffee and perfume.

You can finally breathe once she’s gone, but your want to escape remains. Ignis is still poorly concealing himself.

“She spilled her coffee on me,” he says, unmoving but for the work of his jaw.

You look down at their mugs on the coffee table—_don’t look up, don’t look, don’t—_and want to tell him that’s okay. You didn’t ask. You saw nothing. You are _ not _ prepared to keep his dirty, adulterous secrets. It’s only your first day.

“I-I’ll wait while you change,” you work up the nerve to say. _ Please put on a shirt. _

In Ignis’ absence, the threat of a headache shoots pain through your temples. You pace in his living room, stilled by Samwise bounding toward your legs from a hiding place. You’re holding him in your arms when Ignis returns. You coo at the cat and ignore the pain. You wish you could ignore everything.

“What are we doing today?”

Ignis smiles before he seems to catch himself. You watch it wane, more interested in this new Ignis than ever. He’s complicated. He was _ before, _ but now… How did Future You do it? Was she the wingman in his misdeeds? Was she— were _ you _ really okay with this?

You’re interested, but you don’t want to be anywhere near him when Aranea returns. Just in case.

“I have a bit of reading to do.” He lifts a hand and tentatively holds it toward you. It brushes your shoulder and lands on the cat’s head, where he scratches. “Dinner afterward.”

You’re on board with the second half of his plan. “You don’t have work to do somewhere?”

“I was working with Sage when you arrived.”

You shake your head. Nope. No! You want to avoid that subject all together. “It’s just, I’m already cooped up. This won’t help much if we just… hang out.”

Mostly, you don’t want to be in this room right now. There’s a weird, heated vibe still hanging in the air. The proof is in the dust of pink that lingers on Ignis’ face.

—

Sunlight is filtered through a glass ceiling of honeycomb tiles. You have to blink against it every few minutes. There’s no cover in the Citadel gardens. The trees are all too young, still saplings that reach your shoulders at most. In contrast, the flowers and spices are thriving. The air is thick with the blend of scents from all over. Marmalade dominates the area where you stand now, sweetening the air around you.

You’re oddly charmed that this is the first place to come to Ignis’ mind when you’d asked to go out. You’re _ also _ charmed, although wary of accepting it, that he seems to remember every story you’ve ever told him. Asking him about what you used to do to help him during meetings becomes a discussion on your other job and the things you’d written. Then came his adamance that no one is your greater fan.

“I don’t think I have any fans,” you say with a laugh. A brief pulse of pain sears its way along the crown of your head. You wince and resist touching the bandage the doctor had left over the injury. Talcott’s hat is still on, and you fear taking it off will somehow make it worse.

Eyes bearing down on you blankly behind his visor, Ignis is clueless of your peril. “You’ll have an eager audience when your biography on Iris is released.”

It leaves him in a matter-of-fact way. His certainty is palpable, and it steadies you. Another thing about him that remains unchanged.

“Maybe,” you relent. There isn’t a part of you that cares, really. You haven’t so much as looked at a manuscript, and from one passing moment into the next, this new life has been surprising you as of late. You can hardly stomach what’s already on your full plate.

Ignis comes to a stop ahead of you, turning around with a tilt to his head. You read it as impatience, but it becomes hard to define when he allows a little smile.

“Talcott told me about your busy morning.”

“_Must _ he tell you everything?”

You anticipate a sigh when he inhales slowly.

Instead, he asks, “Why do you keep asking questions when you already know the answers?”

Blinking, frowning, catching up with him, you say, “All right, _boss. _ What should I ask?”

Ignis looks at you. No, he focuses on your face, but you’re close enough to see his eyes shifting in thought behind his visor.

“Why are you on the defensive?” He touches one of his cuffs unnecessarily, then crosses his arms. ”Have I done something?”

You open your mouth to rebut. Except you flounder. Although he’s no longer smiling, that look about him remains. It’s unreadable, unfair. You feel seen.

Averting your gaze, you clear your throat and blink against the sunlight overhead. It heightens the pain at your temples. You bear it, squinting and uncomfortable from the inside out. “What about—” You struggle to think. “Tell me the best and worst things I ever did.” You glance at him but glean nothing from his expression.

“My answers would be too subjective.”

“That’s the point.” You grit your teeth, his unwillingness to work with you grating on your nerves harder than the ensuing headache. You cross your arms. He isn’t the only one allowed to close off. It doesn’t work to quell your feelings as well as you hope. _ He sees me. _ “Talcott didn’t have a problem answering.”

“Talcott is more readily honest than most.”

When Ignis loosens a hand to push his visor back into place, you look away again. Not for the first time since waking, you miss the darkness. Not so much the bar but the people. Not the old house but Darcy. Not the tombs but Ignis. How had he gotten you to extrapolate back then? That’s what you need. A younger, easier to read Ignis to get this one to tell you something. Anything.

“If posed the same request about me,” Ignis says, tearing through your thoughts. “About my greatest and worst acts, how would you answer?”

“I hardly know you.”

_ Exactly. _

_ You’re an imposter. _

_ Like Talcott and everyone else, I’m just waiting for you to remember. _

_ Be _ ** _her_ ** _ already. _

“Would you like to?”

The cacophony in your mind comes to a halt. Dust in the air is caught in a sunbeam around you. Gaze moving from mote to shimmering mote, you land on Ignis to see the slow drop of his arms. He’s either opening up or putting on a very good show of it. His question lingers and floats among the motes. The answer is obvious.

_ Yes. A thousand times yes. _

But this isn’t your favorite book. Ignis is no Mr. Bingley, charmingly witless and pouring with love. You’re not beautiful enough to be Jane or clever enough to be Elizabeth. And Mister Darcy is dead.

“We already agreed to be friends, Ignis.” It leaves you flatly, and you wince, another pulse of pain lacing itself across your scalp. On its way up to touch your injury, your hand is stopped by one larger, firmer.

“Talcott speaks of you as if you’re temporarily disengaged with the world, not suffering from something greater.”

You try to pull your hand from his, but he holds firm, lowering your hands together.

He leans toward you, his voice lower than before. “Head upstairs now. I’ll meet you in my flat, and I'll prepare your favorite meal.”

Not understanding, you shake your head. “What? Ignis, _what_? Don’t change the subject.”

A man you don’t recognize cuts into the conversation. He comes from what must be nowhere, standing where nothing had been seconds ago. Ignis becomes tense next to you, but like all of his emotions today, it’s ephemeral. He offers the man a nod and polite smile.

“Sunlight and nature does everyone good,” he says, seemingly agreeing with whatever the man had said.

You can’t parse it through your tumultuous thoughts and the increasing pressure in your skull. Ignis presses your joined hands against your side. You take the hint and begin to back away, pulling him along.

“I’ll let the garden staff know you’re pleased, your majesty.”

Ignis thanks the man and leads you to the exit. The pain that began at your temples is now between your eyes. You pull your hand out of his to rub circles around them.

“That didn’t seem very normal,” you say.

“We’re usually more tactful in our avoidance of council members.”

He catches you at the elbow, and you blink your eyes open. You’re overshooting the elevator. Fighting a sigh, you follow him in and try to focus on anything but the pain.

“What did he call you?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Ignis,” you say, smiling suddenly at the sheer absurdity of the words as they leave you. “Are you the king now?” They’re out before they’re even a thought, which is at first funny, then embarrassing because _ of course not, why would _ ** _my_ ** _ best friend be the new monarch? _

But Ignis doesn’t smile.

“I’m not yet king, but my coronation is so near that certain people have lost decorum.”

You can’t help your disbelief. Your smile wanes under the weight of your own incredulity. “People just _ chose _ to keep the monarchy?”

Ignis opens his mouth, and you can see it. He’s about to explain that _monarchies don't start that way, now do they? _ And you realize— there, there he is. The Ignis who knows how to probe and lead your thoughts in the right direction.

“We have a constitution now,” he says instead. “The prime minister will be sworn in after my crowning. That’s what I was discussing with Sage. She occasionally reaches out about how we’ll delegate with one another.”

You’re flush with disappointment and unable to process any of it. It’s too much information. Your head is heavy and throbbing. What do you even say to that? You look from him to the numbers of each passing floor blinking overhead. You lend your voice to your first, most pressing curiosity and ask, “If you’re going to be king, why are you at home reading all the time?”

He chuckles, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Not yet. Not with this pain and confusion. You see the swing of his hand upward to adjust his visor.

“Cor suggested I take time for myself while I have the chance. Things will only be busier once I’m crowned.”

You vainly think some of it has to do with you being injured. He’s one of the few people you trust. Future You loved him, and that meant he loved you back. He’s right next door for a reason. He’s taking time off to be there for you, in spite of his complicated life.

You want to be grateful, but you still have news that you need to sleep on to fully digest. You want to _ tell _ him. You’d planned to tell him because you need to tell _ someone. _ Preferably someone who doesn’t keep thinking of you as _ temporarily disengaged. _ Talcott couldn’t be expected to keep such a heavy secret.

But you don’t know where you would fit in with Ignis’ life and decisions now. You can’t bother him with more problems that don’t have anything to do with him. _ If you have a lover, you’ve never told me about it. _ That's what he'd said, which means you had your own secrets. Were they as uncomfortable as his?

The elevator dings at its arrival to your floor, the light flickering overhead. You blink and wince at another spike of pain between your eyes. It has to be a migraine. Steps after Ignis, you trail down the corridor, hands on your head holding the hat down. Maybe if you applied pressure, the pain would go away.

Or your head would explode. What would _ that _ be like?

You stop at your door. “I’m going home.”

Ignis shakes his head and waves for you to follow. “I’m making your favorite: breakfast for dinner.”

You can’t believe the way he says that. It’s as if he hadn’t just revealed something huge. He enters his passcode and holds a grip on the door’s edge, pausing to face you. It’s fleeting, and he goes inside without so much as a goodbye. You catch the door in time seconds later, slipping through with arms tight at your sides.

You can’t pass up his cooking. You also hope, probably in vain, that he has something stronger for the pain than what you have at home.

“I had a feeling you’d be unable to resist.” Ignis leads you to the kitchen, stopping abruptly just beyond the archway.

You walk into him and stumble, pushing him forward. He catches himself on the island, and you realize a moment late what the issue is.

Silvery hair pulled back in elaborate braids, Aranea is bent over the cat’s food bowl, filling it to the point of spilling over. She looks up, eyes flicking from Ignis’ face to yours. A slow smirk forms, and she rights herself to put a hand on her hip. “Isn’t this cute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite part about this reader character in the past timeline is how new to relationships she is. She sees every disagreement with Ignis as an end-of-the-world situation when it very much isn’t. Who doesn’t love such a fragile and frustrating mindset? Lmao
> 
> My favorite part about Ignis is everything, especially the many parts of him I can’t capture with the written word. >.>;;
> 
> I have honestly dreaded this chapter, specifically the pregnancy reveal, from the beginning. I ultimately chose to tag for it after posting this update. Please bear in mind that it's only a minor part of the plot. I do NOT want to attract and mislead people specifically looking for pregnancy fics, which is _not_ what this is.
> 
> With that said, I'm sorry if this story and the direction it's taking doesn't meet your expectations based on what I've written in the past. I want to explore new ideas rather than rehashing the same tropes (as much as I love them). I'll understand if you no longer want to engage with my writing or this story because of this.
> 
> If you aren't sure and decide to keep reading, you may be pleasantly surprised at what's in store. Personally, I like the way things are going now. I’m excited to write it all out and see if the characters end up where I think/hope they will by the end. But if uncertainty within your fiction is not your thing, I fully understand!
> 
> Stick around, bookmark this bad boy, open it up as one out of a hundred browser tabs on your "to-read" list, whatever you want to do because I **one hundred percent** plan to finish this. I really do appreciate all of your patience in the meantime. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading this mess <3


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